Chapter 23

"Weren't you just wearing a different shirt, like, five seconds ago?" David blinked sleepily from where he was sitting at the table nursing a cup of coffee.

"Yes." Kurt scrambled from his bedroom to the bathroom.

"And the shirt you were wearing five seconds ago was different than the one you were wearing five minutes ago."

"Very good, David; your observation skills are breathtaking." Kurt turned to study his back in the mirror. He let out a long sigh and went back into his bedroom.

David glanced at his phone, "You're gonna be late."

"I am not," Kurt came back out of his room; fastening his feather pin to his vest carefully. He smiled approvingly at it before dashing into the kitchen, "Did you make extra coffee?"

"Put it in a thermos on the counter for you." David motioned a hand toward the breakfast bar. He turned his attention to Bocelli's cage sitting in front of him on the table and whistled at the bird.

"My hero," Kurt pulled an apple out of the fridge and leaned against the counter for a moment to eat it. He watched David poke a finger through the bars of the cage, "He's going to bite you."

"He will not." David rolled his eyes but retracted his finger quickly.

"Do you work today?" Kurt glanced at the clock on the microwave.

"Yeah, but I've got a couple hours before I have to go… what's your plan for the day?"

"Work and lunch with my dad." Kurt shrugged.

"You excited for your new job thing?"

Kurt nodded, "Very, but I'm not sure if I should wear what I have on or—"

"Wear that. You can wear the other thing tomorrow." David looked at Kurt's jeans distastefully, "How are those even comfortable?"

Kurt took a drink from his thermos and looked down at his tight, black pants affectionately, "Any feelings of discomfort are quickly superseded by the fact that I know I look amazing. A better question is how do you feel capable of seducing anyone when you're wearing blue Levi jeans and New Balance sneakers?"

"I'm not trying to draw attention to myself." David shrugged and turned his gaze back to the table.

"Is it that you're not trying to draw in the attention of a cute guy," Kurt threw away the remainder of his apple, but he kept his gaze on David, "Or is it that you're not trying to draw attention to the fact that you're gay?"

David blushed and remained mute.

"That's what I thought," Kurt sighed.

"You think I need to tell more people?" David studied Kurt intently.

"Not at all," Kurt moved back to the bathroom to check his hair again, "Move at your own pace, by all means Dave, but I'm warning you now that if any of those pants of yours find their way into my laundry on accident or get left out in the family room, they might mysteriously disappear."

"You're going to force me to dress gay?" David's tone was incredulous but he smiled slightly.

"No, I'm going to force you to dress adult," Kurt slung his bag over his shoulder and moved toward the door, "That letterman jacket went from cool to depressing the minute Figgins handed you your diploma."

David glared, "Watch it, Hummel."

"Just some honest advice from a friend." Kurt raised his hands in a show of innocence.

"Whatever," David shook his head and waved, "Good luck with the store clerk thing."

"Design intern," Kurt corrected; he moved back into the apartment to snatch his thermos off the counter before gliding out the door, "I'll see you later."

Kurt had convinced himself all morning that the jitteriness in his limbs and the slight flutter in his stomach were signs of excitement, but when he hit the button for the elevator, he couldn't deny it: it wasn't just the thrill of a new experience he was feeling; it was anxiety. He glared and mentally berated himself for being nervous over something so silly. It's an internship in a store in Ohio; you have absolutely no plausible reason to be anxious; man up.

Still, the little bit of food and coffee in his stomach churned and he felt a familiar light-headedness as he stepped onto the elevator. Normally the tinny piano music that was played over the speakers irritated him, but today, Kurt liked the sound, if only for a distraction from his sudden, undeniable nervousness. He leaned against the wall, closed his eyes, and listened.

Blaine closed his eyes and listened. Music had always been his second voice; a language he swore he understood better than any of the flat, monotonous syllables of spoken words. It gave a pulse to the things he felt; a confidence that he could say anything he needed to, so long as he could find the right song. Today it was his therapy; a soothing string of notes he knew, without doubt, he could piece together.

"Not tired of that song yet?"

Blaine's fingers stumbled at the sudden sound of his father's voice. He opened his eyes and turned to look at John, "No."

"I don't think I've heard you play anything else in a week," John smiled, but the expression was weary. He stepped further into the room and nodded toward the piano, "You used to give your piano teacher fits because you wouldn't stick with a song for more than a few days. You always needed a new challenge."

"I know I can play this song," Blaine traced his fingers over the keys; his thumb pressed down a little too hard, and a quiet note rang out. He cringed and dropped his hand to his lap, "Sometimes it's nice just to feel like you're good at something."

His father was quiet beside him for a moment, "You're good at everything you try to do, Blaine."

Blaine bit back the urge to snort. He glanced up at his father's suit, "Aren't you late for work?"

John looked momentarily disappointed but then he was smiling again, "No, I planned on going in a little late. I was hoping I could convince you to come in today, too."

Blaine frowned. They hadn't discussed his potential employment with his father for weeks, "Go into your office? Why?"

"A paycheck and getting out of the house will be good for you; you need a change in pace," John glanced around the family room, "It's not good for you to be cooped up in here all day."

It was true, the days in the house seemed to be growing increasingly long and Blaine was bored. He'd watched almost five seasons of Sex and the City, smoked a little more weed than he could bring himself to mention to Kurt, and his short-lived infatuation with the culinary creations on Cake Boss were starting to make him nauseous to look at. Not to mention the fact that it would be nice to report something to Kurt other than his opinion on Carrie Bradshaw's shoes when he called each night, "Yeah… okay."

John's smile was even brighter, "Great you don't need a suit jacket, but you should at least put on a dress shirt. Go change and then we'll head out."

Blaine tested his feet on the ground, but before he could push himself up, his father was hooking a hand under his elbow. Before he could think about it, Blaine recoiled and glared hard at John, "I don't need help!"

John lifted his hand in surrender and took a step back. He cleared his throat, "I'll wait for you in the kitchen; no rush."

"I won't take long," Blaine's skin felt itchy with sudden agitation, but he tried to push it to the back of his mind as he jogged up the stairs and into his room.

He pushed through hangers of clothes carefully, forgetting twice what it was he was looking for, before he found a dress shirt. He pulled it off its hanger and eyed it cynically before sliding it easily over his arms.

The buttons were their own task entirely. He fumbled with them slowly; each missed attempt making him angrier. He cursed his left hand twice and wished he could inflict some sort of harm upon it without creating pain for himself. He only had three left when he suddenly paused at his work. He moved to stand in front of his mirror and looked himself over. The fabric hung awkwardly on his shoulders; looked too wide at his stomach. Even with it still open at the top, he knew there was no way it was going to fit.

He pulled it off over his head and took a little too much satisfaction in crumpling it into a wad of fabric and throwing it across the room. It hit the wall with a completely anticlimactic thump and fell to the floor in a heap. Blaine glared at it, "Fuck you."

Feeling decidedly a little better, albeit childish, Blaine moved back to his closet and selected what he hoped would be deemed worthy office attire before returning downstairs.

His parents were standing close to one another, exchanging quiet words, but upon seeing him, they broke apart and gave him twin, oversized smiles.

His father looked over his khakis and black polo, "Couldn't find your suit?"

"It's too big," Blaine looked down at his outfit, too, feeling suddenly self-conscious, "Does this look bad?"

"Of course not, sweetie," Liz smiled reassuringly, "I made you a smoothie if you're up to it."

Blaine moved to the freezer and pulled out the cup with a grateful smile before taking a chair at the table. He stuck a spoonful in his mouth and made a face, "Why's it so chalky?"

"Protein powder. It's good for you," Elizabeth motioned toward the refrigerator, "If you'd prefer, I could make you eggs."

"I would rather eat actual chalk than eat eggs," Blaine wrinkled his nose and shoved another spoonful of smoothie into his mouth. He looked between his parents, "Why are you both staring at me?"

John turned quickly toward the coffee pot and busied himself filling a thermos, but Elizabeth laughed and took the chair beside Blaine, "Because I'm endlessly amazed that I created such a beautiful boy."

Blaine snorted, "Of course."

Elizabeth frowned when Blaine put his spoon down after one more bite, "How do you feel today? I heard you coughing during the night."

"Okay," Blaine shrugged, "I thought this cold was going away, but it just keeps coming back."

"Did you take your vitamins?" Elizabeth reached out and touched the back of her hand to Blaine's forehead.

"Yes," Blaine pushed her hand away, "And I checked my temperature; I'm a very healthy ninety eight point six."

"I'm glad to hear it; don't push yourself too hard today and make yourself sicker," When Blaine rolled his eyes at her, she frowned, "I mean it, Blaine, you'll wind up putting yourself in the hospital."

"Mom, I'm delivering mail and filing; it's not exactly Olympic level exertion." Blaine stood and crossed the kitchen to dump the rest of his breakfast into the sink.

John screwed a cap onto his thermos and glanced at the clock on the microwave, "I have a meeting at eleven, and I need to get you situated before then; we'd better get going."

Blaine nodded and made for the door, but not before being intercepted by his mother, "Excuse me, mister, I'd like a kiss before you leave."

"I'm not five and this isn't my first day of kindergarten," Blaine huffed, but he touched a quick kiss to her cheek. He smiled despite his irritation, "Love you."

Elizabeth hugged him close, "Remember if you're tired or anything—"

"Mom, seriously, you're going to give yourself an—um, an…." Blaine bit his lip as he thought, "…you'll make yourself sick."

Elizabeth held Blaine back from her by his shoulders and searched his face, "Are you sure you're—"

"Liz, he's fine; let him go," John pressed a hand into the small of Blaine's back and pushed him toward the door.

Elizabeth sighed, "Fine. Have a wonderful day; I love you both."

Blaine moved quickly to the passenger seat of his father's BMW and climbed in. When his father joined him he smiled wearily, "Go now before she thinks of something else to worry over."

"Don't have to tell me twice, sport, but if things get a little too intense for you today, let me know, alright?"

Blaine frowned, "Just keep me away from answering phones."

John chuckled, "I have a secretary to do that, but I'll be keeping you busy with plenty of other projects today."

Blaine nodded, but still, the idea of going into his father's office suddenly made him a little wary. His memory could get fuzzy or he could lash out at someone or who knew what else… He fidgeted in his seat and touched a hand to the side of his head, "I forgot my hat."

"You look fine," John glanced at Blaine, "But if it's throwing you off, we can go back for it."

Blaine dropped his hand back into his lap, "No, I'll… it's fine."

John stopped at a red light and turned his gaze more fully to Blaine. He watched the quick drum of his fingers beside the window before reaching over and squeezing his shoulder, "Remember what I said? You're good at everything you try to do."

Blaine met John's eyes and managed a smile.

John turned his attention back to the road when the light turned green, but he smiled for Blaine, "No reason to be nervous."

Kurt had had little reason to be nervous about his job, but every reason to be be a little apprehensive in regards to his new employer because the only thing ordinary about Darcy Johnson was her last name.

Kurt had barely had long enough to register the woman dressed in fifteen colors with hair the color of corn silk was his boss before he was chasing after her between displays of clothing.

She spoke with alarming speed the moment he had confirmed that, yes, he was Kurt Hummel, and she had yet to stop. She never turned back to face him as she pointed at displays, led him into a back room just long enough for him to catch a glimpse of a row of tall reams of paper, and then he was jumping out of the way when she pivoted on her heel and moved back toward the main showroom. Kurt tried to absorb as much of what she was saying as fast as he could, but it was proving to be a losing game. Supply locations, art directors, project managers, the other interns—Kurt felt dizzy with all of the information being unloaded on him, but suddenly she came to an abrupt halt and turned to face him for the first time since he had introduced himself.

"You can start on the pumpkins with Reese."

Kurt blinked, "Who?"

"Reese, Reese Henley!" Darcy looked at Kurt in exasperation, "Do I need to go through names again?"

"No, no; I just misheard you the first time." Kurt smiled quickly.

"Good," With that, Darcy turned away from Kurt and disappeared through a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY.

Kurt blinked after her helplessly before turning to look at the few people at the front of the store. He walked uncertainly over to a girl threading beads onto a length of fishing line, "Reese?"

She glared at Kurt and answered in a voice so nasal, Kurt fought the urge to cringe, "I'm Alina."

"I'm Reese," A voice—much deeper than Kurt had expected—spoke behind him.

He turned and couldn't help it when his eyebrows shot up. The person in front of him was tall with short, thick brown hair and eyes that immediately made Kurt think of Blaine, "You're a boy."

Kurt blushed the second the words were out of his mouth, but the boy only grinned, "So are you."

"Sorry," Kurt blushed even redder, "She said Reese, so I was sort of expecting a girl."

"Reese is a guy name, too, ya know," Reese looked Kurt over, "It's your first day?"

Kurt sighed, "Is it that obvious?"

"Honestly, yes," Reese motioned a hand for Kurt to follow when he started walking, "But it helps that I've been watching you since you came in and I saw Darcy show you around. Did you get anything out of your orientation?"

"That I'm supposed to be working with you on pumpkins?" Kurt smiled weakly.

"That's more than I understood my first day; you're off to a good start," Reese sat down on the edge of the front window display. He held up a box of copper and silver colored flat-topped pins, "We're putting these in the pumpkins."

Kurt stared at the box cynically, "Seriously?"

Reese laughed and held up a finished pumpkin; the top bedazzled in copper pins, "Darcy's crazy, but she's got good vision, just go with it."

Kurt nodded and settled into the space beside Reese to start working.

Reese picked up a half-finished white gourd and settled it on his lap, "So, Kurt, where'd you go to school?"

Kurt blushed, "I didn't, technically. I'm taking a couple classes at Ohio State when I'm not working here, but I'm not a full time student."

Reese looked up from his work, "But you have to be some sort of graduated design major to get this job."

Kurt shrugged, "My boyfriend's dad pulled some strings for me."

"Boyfriend?" Reese echoed.

Kurt looked up at him and smiled dryly, "If you tell me you honestly thought I was straight, you'll be one of three people who have ever actually believed that."

"No, I figured, but, sometimes I hope for something to be true and I end up making myself believe it." Reese chuckled and shrugged, his eyes back on his work.

Kurt pressed a pin into the pumpkin on his lap and glanced back at Reese, hoped?"Where'd you go to school?"

"The New School in New York."

Kurt perked up, "I was going to move to New York this year. Did you like it?"

"I loved it," Reese sighed, "No offense, but if you had plans for the city, what are you still doing here?"

"My boyfriend was supposed to be coming, too, but he got sick so I stayed here with him until—ouch!" Kurt stuck his finger in his mouth when a pin suddenly bit into it.

"You're gonna wanna watch your fingers." Reese patted Kurt on the shoulder sympathetically.

"Thanks for the warning," Kurt eyed his injured finger for a moment before settling back into his project, "Why'd you come back to Ohio?"

"I—"

Darcy suddenly appeared in front of them in whirl of color. She glanced down at the pumpkin in Kurt's hands and pulled it from his grasp, "You used the silver, gold, andthe bronze?"

Kurt nodded, "I thought it gave it a little extra flair."

Darcy turned the pumpkin around in her hands, "Make seven more like it."

Kurt flinched when she dropped the pumpkin back down into his lap, "Sure."

"Keep up the good work!"

Kurt watched her go in mild amazement, "I have never seen so many colors on one human being."

"You're lucky she liked your thing; she can get pretty nasty if you don't do things her way." Reese admired Kurt's work before turning back to his own.

Kurt hid a self-satisfied smirk by turning to pick up a white gourd from the stack behind him, "Sorry, what were you saying before?"

"Cost of living's steep out there. I came home for this internship and then I'm headed back," Reese motioned a hand toward Kurt, "If you're thinking you want to go into design, the New School's the place to be."

"I'm trying to go more down the fashion route." Kurt shrugged; he had no desire to discuss the dropped internship, but, luckily, Reese didn't ask.

"New School has that, too," Reese looked Kurt over again with a slow smile, "With a good degree and looks like yours, I'm sure you could make some good connections quick."

Kurt looked up at Reese hopefully, "You think?"

"I don't think, I know," Reese held up his second finished project for them both to admire, "And trust me, my instincts are good. Things will be hard when you first start out, but you can get to the point you want to be at; you'll just have to be a bit patient at first."

"You're going to have to be a bit patient with some of the people here, Blaine," John spoke carefully. Despite his eyes being focused on the glowing numbers above the elevator doors, Blaine could feel John's gaze on him, "They know you're sick and they haven't seen you in a long time so they might get a little…. sentimental."

Blaine nodded. He had been to his father's office before. When he was five—a particularly busy year for John, Blaine's favorite part of his week was going to work with his father every other Saturday. He insisted upon wearing his only suit even though the shoes hurt his feet. He filled his days playing in empty conference rooms and being spoiled by the secretaries. He'd been the darling of the entire floor and people were constantly watching for him to come scuttling by their offices so they could provide him with a piece of candy or jokingly ask him to deliver a note to someone else on the floor. For five-year-old Blaine, those Saturdays had been glorious.

The second Blaine stepped off the elevator and followed his father past the long row of cubicles, all eyes were once again on him, but this time it was not affection in the constant glances and smiles. It was pity.

Blaine touched a hand self-consciously to the back of his head and wished he had had the good sense to bring a hat. But this wasn't him, no; Blaine didn't do self-conscious.Act confident and you'll be confident. Blaine straightened up a little and tried to meet a few of the gazes directed toward him with smiles.

"John, I'm so glad you're finally in, I just dropped those forms from the—Blaine!" Blaine resisted the urge to step behind his father the way he might have when he was small. He didn't recognize the woman directing her wet, sad gaze at him, and he wanted nothing to do with her equally sad smile, "I'm Caryn Daugherty, you used to come into my office and ask to play with the Rubik's Cube I kept on my desk, do you remember?"

Blaine smiled, "Sorry, I don't."

"Oh, dear, that's okay," Caryn reached out and squeezed Blaine's arm sympathetically.

She thinks it's because of the cancer. Blaine realized with a pang. He contemplated correcting her, but then suddenly he was enveloped in a stiff hug. He stood perfectly still underneath the embrace, his eyes flitting to his father's helplessly.

"Oh, Blaine, sweetheart, this must be so hard for you."

Blaine lifted a hand and patted the woman on the back awkwardly, "I'm doing fine. I'm… staying positive."

Blaine could practically hear Kurt laughing at the cliché. He made a mental note to make an actual note to tell Kurt about the entire awkward exchange when he got home.

Caryn finally released him, her eyes looking even wetter as she looked him over, "Don't worry, everything happens for a reason, okay?"

"Uh," Blaine blinked; nodded dumbly, "okay."

John finally stepped in to rescue him. He clapped a hand on Blaine's shoulder and smiled at Caryn, "Blaine's in to help Marie with some filing today."

Blaine tuned out the rest of the conversation for fear of saying something he shouldn't in sudden irritation. He stared down at his shoes until he felt John pressing a hand into the small of his back. He blinked up at Caryn who was looking at him with The Smile again. Blaine forced a pleasant smile of his own, "Nice seeing you."

"Oh, you too, sweetie, if you need anything at all, my office is right here," Caryn pointed to the door they were standing beside, "Thirteen seventeen, okay?"

"Thanks." Blaine nodded and moved forward quickly, fearful of Caryn going in for another hug.

On and on the routine went. John's colleagues approached Blaine with overly sympathetic smiles, a reminder of who they were, and some piece of advice or anecdote about someone they knew who had been sick, too. Blaine answered them with his own routine: a polite smile, an awkward pat on the back for the ones that hugged him, and an assurance that he was 'feeling well and staying positive'.

When John ushered Blaine into his office, Blaine collapsed in one of the chairs, "I'm already exhausted."

John smiled apologetically, "I'm sorry, Blaine, but they mean well. They all worry about you, you know."

"Next time they want to show their support, they can leave stories about their Great Aunt Mildred's skin cancer and their friend of a friend's Hodgkin's out of it." Blaine rubbed his eyes, "And their hugs; they can skip those, too."

"Blaine," His father reprimanded gently.

"What?" Blaine snapped.

John sighed, "Let's just get you set up to work, shall we?"

Blaine sat up straighter in his chair, "Sure. What do you have for me?"

John hoisted a box of papers off of the floor and onto his desk, "There's three boxes of these. They all need to be alphabetized and put into their files. Some of them might not have files, so you'll need to make them folders."

Blaine looked at the box with disdain, "Sounds like fun."

John put the box back down on the ground and pushed the other two out beside it, "Marie cleared a desk for you to work at by hers—"

Blaine looked toward the door miserably, "You're going to make me go back out there?"

John studied Blaine's face for a moment, "I think you've run into just about everyone who might have something to say to you; a lot of the secretaries and younger workers wouldn't know you."

Blaine looked down at his lap. He ran his tongue over the sore in his mouth for what had to have been the fifteenth time that day; it stung and he knew he should let it be, but he pressed his tongue into it again anyway. He didn't want to go sit out in the maze of cubicles; he didn't want people to pass his desk just so they could get a quick look at John Anderson's sick son. Most of all, he didn't want anymore of those pitying smiles.

"If you'd prefer, you can work in here with me."

Blaine looked up in surprise. His father looked back at him in quiet understanding, "Would that be okay?"

"You'll have to work from the floor and there's going to be days when I'll need you to work at your desk if I have smaller meetings in here, but today it shouldn't be a problem."

Blaine pushed himself out of his chair and dragged one of the boxes to the far corner of the office. He settled himself on the floor and smiled gratefully at his father before turning his attention to the box.

John stood quietly watching Blaine for a long minute, "I need to get to my meeting; you okay in here for a bit?"

Blaine waved a hand toward the door, "I'll be fine."

John hesitated before pulling out a steno pad from a drawer, "I'm writing down the room number and my cell phone number. Marie—you remember my secretary, right? She's the third cubicle to the right of my door—I'll write that down, too. If you need anything, you can ask her, or you can come find me."

"Unless you're planning on leaving me here for a few days, I think I'll be fine, Dad," Blaine glanced up from the stack of papers he'd pulled out of the box at his side, "And I have your number in my contacts."

John nodded, but tapped a finger on the pad of paper, "Well, just in case—it's here, okay?"

"Okay." Blaine mumbled. He didn't look back up until he heard the door click shut quietly. He watched through the window beside the door as his father walked away, but not before pausing in front of Marie's desk to say something and glance back toward his office.

"Typical." Blaine muttered to himself. He hated that his parents didn't trust him to be alone for more than a few hours. He hated that a stupid cold and a little fever were treated like a sure sign of death. And now he hated that stupid fucking sheet of paper sitting on his father's desk. He glanced toward the window beside the door again before pushing himself up and moving over to the desk. He pulled the top sheet of paper off, crumpled it into a ball, and dropped it into the trashcan before settling back down to work.

The task should have been monotonous. Something that would have once been busy work that allowed him to keep his hands occupied while his mind wandered to other places. Instead, he found himself needing to focus hard; recite the first two letters of a last name over and over as he scanned his piles to find where to put it and he still ended up having to double check. And of course there was the issue of his left hand messing up everything; he made an effort to focus on using the right one, but there were only so many directions he could let his mind go.

When he reached absently to collect the finished stack of A's, the pile fell from his hand and fanned out across the floor like fallen leaves.

"Fuck!" Blaine lashed out at the M's with a foot and sent it careening into the stack of J's and L's. He stared moodily at the mess of papers splayed out around him.

The sound of the handle turning on the door moved his mood quickly from furious to humiliated. He shifted until he was sitting back on his heels and scrambled to straighten up some of the mess as his father stepped through the door.

John surveyed the disarray of papers scattered across the floor in silence, "Everything alright?"

"No." Blaine snapped. He glared hard at a termination form for someone named Missy Albright and decided he hated her.

John knelt down and reached out to straighten the pile of F's that had somehow become askew.

"I don't need help!" Blaine glowered at him.

John retracted his hand and straightened up. He settled into his desk chair wordlessly.

Blaine started the slow process of shuffling the scattered papers into some semblance of a pile to reorder. His mood remained stormy, but he looked up in surprise when quiet music suddenly filled the office.

John fiddled with the dial on a stereo for a moment before meeting Blaine's eyes, "It's strange having you in here and not hearing you sing—you never stopped when you were a little boy."

Blaine regarded his father before speaking carefully, "If I'm remembering right, I drove you crazy because I never knew words, so I'd just repeat the ones I did know—you told me to hum."

John chuckled, "And you never stopped. You could listen to a song once and hum the entire thing."

Blaine turned his gaze back to the stack of papers in front of him, his anger melting away to quiet frustration, "…I can't."

"Can't hum?" John raised an eyebrow, "I heard you singing yesterday."

"No, I can sing and hum and whatever; just not while I'm trying to do this stuff, too," Blaine looked up at his father and felt suddenly ashamed for the quickly lengthening list of mistakes he'd made over the course of only one morning, "I can't multitask well. I lose track of things."

John stared back at Blaine as though trying to make up his mind about something. He glanced down at the papers still scattered across the floor, "You need a break. Lets go get lunch."

"You need a break. Lets go get lunch." Reese pulled the paintbrush Kurt was using out from between his fingers.

Kurt smiled—it was true, he did need a break. He was tired and nearly cross-eyed from focusing on getting the smallest details right in everything he did or else face Darcy's wrath, "I actually have plans to meet up with my dad for lunch today; sorry."

Reese looked disappointed, but he quickly flashed Kurt another winning smile, "That's alright; rain check?"

"Sure," Kurt glanced around the store, but he couldn't spy the familiar nearly white glow of Darcy's hair anywhere, "Do we need to check in first or something?"

"Find Darcy and let her know this is when you want to do your lunch break from now on. I'll see ya this afternoon." Reese clapped Kurt on the shoulder and flashed him a smile before disappearing out the front door.

Kurt found Darcy perched on a ladder in the front window display. He peered up at her and cleared his throat awkwardly, "Excuse me, Miss Johnson?"

Darcy didn't look away from the strand of beads she was hanging, "What is it now?"

"I was going to take my lunch break—I'm meeting someone for lunch and—"

"Go then; be back in thirty minutes and make sure you bring newspaper."

Kurt frowned, "Newspaper?"

"Yes, the newspaper I told you you'd have to pick up," Darcy finally looked down at him; clearly irritated, "We discussed this during your orientation, Kurt."

"Oh! Right!" Kurt bobbed his head up and down, "What I meant to ask is if you had a preference for…for… which paper I got?"

Darcy frowned, "Why would that matter?"

"I don't know; I thought maybe you just wanted the New York Times maybe or just the comics sections or something like that; just wanted to make sure." Kurt stepped back from the ladder and edged toward the door.

Alina rolled her eyes and snorted.

Kurt made a mental note to move her immediately to his Bad List.

Darcy smiled slightly, "Your attention to detail is good; I like that. You said you're meeting someone for lunch?"

Kurt nodded.

"I'm feeling generous today. You can have three extra minutes for your lunch break," Darcy picked up another strand of beads and turned it between her fingers; assessing Alina's work with pursed lips.

"Thank you, Miss Johnson," Kurt directed a smug smirk at Alina.

Darcy turned back toward the ladder, "Your time starts now, Mr. Hummel, I suggest you get going if you plan on getting my papers back here on time."

Without another word, Kurt rushed out the door. He was set to meet his father no later than one at a restaurant just off campus, but he couldn't stop himself from pulling over beside every free newspaper dispenser he passed and tucking a stack of the papers in his backseat. By the time he arrived at the restaurant he was seventeen minutes late for when he'd promised to meet Burt, eleven minutes into his thirty-three minute lunch break and completely out of breath. He collapsed into the chair across from his father nearly panting, "Sorry I'm late; I had to finish painting for this light bulb project I was doing and then I had to talk to my boss and my car was parallel parked and I couldn't get out of the space and I had to pick up every free newspaper I could find because Darcy wants papers and I don't even know how many and—"

Burt leaned his elbows on the table and pushed a glass of water toward Kurt, "Take a breath, kid; you're gonna give yourself a heart attack if you don't settle down."

Kurt took a drink from the offered cup of water before appraising his father, "I, for one, don't have a history of heart problems. Have you been eating well without me there to hover?"

"I'm a full grown man, Kurt, I think I can—" Burt glanced at Kurt's dubious expression and let out a huff, "Yes, I'm eating well."

Kurt nodded his satisfaction before looking down at his menu.

"How about you; you taking good care of yourself?"

"Of course." Kurt closed his menu and motioned a hand at his face, "Look at me; is that even a question?"

Burt snorted, "That Karofsky kid treating you okay?"

"Dad, I think you can move past calling him the Karofsky Kid and move on to David, and, yes, he's very civil. The table manners that it took me two years to teach Finn have been mastered by Dave in two months."

"Hn," Burt flagged down their waitress before turning his gaze back to Kurt, "Isn't this the first day of that job of yours? They wearing you out already?"

"My boss just has high expectations; it would have been the same in New York with the internship I'm sure," Kurt shrugged, "It's challenging, but I like it, I think."

They paused in their conversation to order with a promise of a good tip from Burt directed at the waitress if she could get their food out fast.

"Well I'm glad to hear you're being so positive about it," Burt turned his attention back to Kurt once the waitress had gone, "No bitter feelings about New York?"

Kurt stirred his straw in his glass slowly, "I'd rather be there, but maybe the year will be good for me… I was talking to one of the other interns today about maybe trying to get a degree in fashion instead of just diving into the internships full on."

"You do the research and give me the pitch and we'll see what we can make happen," Burt smiled, "You been keeping an eye on your brother? I'm headed over to check on him and Puck after our lunch; anything I should know?"

Kurt shrugged, "I see them around campus sometimes, but I'm sort of out of their social loop. I never know who or what they're talking about. Except when Finn talks about Rachel, which is admittedly a lot."

Burt studied Kurt's face, "Is that gettin' you down?"

"Finn talking about Rachel?" Kurt rolled his eyes, "I'd have a bigger problem if he wasn't talking about her—him and Puck want to go out to New York to visit her and Quinn sometime soon."

"I meant them having a social thing you feel like you're not a part of."

"Yes and no," Kurt glanced back up at his father, "I'm busy so it's not like I'm reduced to sitting around and wallowing over the fact that I don't hang out with them."

"But?"

"… But it's strange seeing them move on so fast," Kurt sat back in his chair, "Finn's still an idiot and Puck is still a pig, but somehow it seems like they're still… growing or evolving or something."

Burt nodded, "They're in a new part of their lives; they're still kids, so they're bound to do some stupid stuff, but they're taking on new responsibilities…You gonna go on that New York trip with them?"

Kurt shrugged, "I don't know. I'm scheduled to work most of the weekend and I have Blaine Friday nights and Saturday mornings, so it would take a lot of schedule rearranging."

Their waitress returned with their orders and promises to bring drink refills when she returned again.

Burt took a bite of his sandwich, but his gaze remained on Kurt.

Kurt met his father's gaze and paused with a bite of his salad halfway up to his mouth, "What?"

Burt swallowed his food and took a drink from his cup before settling Kurt with a look, "Don't you forget you're still a kid, too. You taking some time to have fun?"

Kurt rolled his eyes, "I see Blaine every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, and I Skype with Rachel every other night."

Burt sat back and fished his wallet out of his pocket. He pushed a folded fifty across the table, "Go see a movie or something sometime soon, alright?"

Kurt looked at the money between them in surprise, "Dad, you don't have to give me money to go to a movie… and a movie won't cost me fifty dollars."

"Consider this another new responsibility for you," Burt looked at Kurt seriously, "We had this talk at the beginning of the summer: be smart, but don't forget to have some fun. I expect a report by next week on what you do with that fifty."

Kurt took the money and folded it neatly into his pocket, "Thanks, Dad."

Burt smiled and motioned his sandwich at Kurt, "And I also expect a couple more phone calls. Carol misses talking to you."

"And you don't?" Kurt raised an eyebrow but smiled.

"Of course I do," Burt smiled faintly, "It's funny—I've got Carol around, but not having you in the house just makes it seem empty. You and me have always been a team."

Kurt reached across the table and squeezed Burt's hand, "We still are."

"Good to hear it, kid," Burt leaned back in his chair and tried to get the waitresses attention yet again, "Now lets get that check before you end up being late getting back to work."

"You're going to be late getting back to the office." Blaine ran a thumb over the white linen of the napkin on his lap, "I'd have been okay with just getting something from one of those food carts outside your office or something."

"That's the good thing about being one of the guys in charge, sport; you make a lot of your own hours," John handed his menu back to their waitress with a smile, "And your mother and I never took you out for a graduation dinner, so consider this a partial make up for it."

"Thank you," Blaine smiled a little. He picked up his glass of water from the table and glanced around the restaurant.

"Have we brought you here before?" John looked around, too, "I know your mother and I have been here a few times, but did we bring you here after your confirmation?"

Blaine shook his head; his eyes resting on a table tucked away in a corner, "No, but I've been here before. I took Kurt on a date here last summer."

John looked momentarily uncomfortable, but the moment passed and he managed a smile, "I'm sure he was impressed."

Blaine laughed quietly, "He has a thing for tuna tartare so he was a little disappointed he couldn't find it on the menu."

"There's a new seafood place a few blocks down from here; I'm sure they'd have it there." John glanced down at his phone before setting it down on the table beside his glass.

Blaine met his father's eyes again, "I haven't missed that you're trying harder to accept me and him, and I appreciate it… a lot more than you know."

Blaine couldn't help but feel a small spark of pride when his father's expression turned from awkward to grateful at his words. John cleared his throat, though, and the moment passed. He reached into his pocket and slid something across the table to Blaine, "Marie asked me to give these to you; she's had them in her desk for years."

Blaine picked up one of the business cards and smiled. On each one, a little logo of his father's company was embossed on the top over Blaine's name in neat, black font, "You gave these to me for Christmas when I was five."

John chuckled, "You passed them out to everyone in our office but when they offered you theirs, you only ever wanted the customized floral ones from the secretaries."

"And yours," Blaine shuffled through the pile of papers, smiling absently at the collection of cards from his father's coworkers under the stack of his own. He held up his father's card, "I think I had about fifty of them."

"I've had a promotion or two since then, I'll have to give you my new card," John smiled at their waitress when she returned to put plates of food down in front of them before looking back at Blaine, "I'll probably be getting a new one from you in a few year, too."

Blaine's smile slipped just a little, "I've been thinking about that a bit, Dad, and… I don't think I want to do law… or business."

John took a bite of his food and chewed slowly while he studied Blaine. He swallowed and put his fork down, "There's a lot of other fields out there you could look into, I suppose… computer science, engineering, medicine—"

"Acting."

John's expression turned tired, "Blaine, you can't major in acting."

"Last time I checked it's listed as a major just like business and law." Blaine prodded his food with his fork and didn't look up at his father.

John let out a long sigh, "You need to be practical, Blaine. Acting is a wonderful hobby, but you need to choose something financially lucrative so you can support yourself."

"It's what I love," Blaine glanced up at his father, "You taught me to be passionate about things, so why wouldn't I commit myself to something I'm passionate about?"

"Blaine, you go to college to get a job, not play around for four years." John's voice was even, but it held the sharp underlying warning that it was time for Blaine to stop arguing, "You don't have to major in business or law, but—"

"But I have to choose something on your list of pre-approved options." Blaine snapped.

John fell mute and turned his attention down to his plate.

They ate in silence and Blaine felt a small sliver of guilt. His father was trying. His father took him out for a nice lunch and gave him a way to make a little money and he was ruining it with a trivial fight. He glanced up at John, "Sorry. It's not… it doesn't matter. I'm sorry I started a fight."

John looked up at him again, but instead of looking placated by the apology, he looked concerned, "It doesn't matter?"

Blaine shrugged; he just wanted the argument to be over and, to be honest, maybe it didn't matter. He looked back down at his plate and took a bite of his chicken. It tasted bland and dry against his tongue, but he swallowed it down anyway.

John was silent for another long minute, "Blaine, there's something we need to talk about."

Blaine looked up from his food warily, "What?"

John hesitated for a moment. He leaned forward toward Blaine, a frown creasing his features and making him look suddenly much older, "I know how you feel about your mother and I going through anything in your room…"

Oh God, the condoms…or the weed…or… Blaine tried to suppress a hot blush he could already feel burning in his cheeks, "But you did anyway."

"Not technically," John didn't look disgusted or angry… he looked…Blaine searched his father's face until he figured it out. He looked worried. Really worried.

"Then what?" Blaine sat back impatiently; suddenly restless.

"Your mother borrowed your laptop."

Porn? Blaine decided no, she hadn't found porn. Porn wouldn't require a conversation, and it definitely wouldn't require that look on his father's face, "So?"

"She used Google and… she saw your search history," John was still leaned close; his eyes searching Blaine's, "Why are you looking up stuff about embalming people, Blaine?"

Blaine felt the blood leave his face just as fast as it had rushed to it a moment earlier. He tried to think fast and managed to force a feeble smile, "I'm considering becoming a mortician if the acting thing doesn't work out."

"Blaine." John didn't smile.

Blaine stared down at his hands. What was he supposed to say? Was he supposed to explain the creeping fears and shadowy thoughts that crossed his mind as he lay in bed at night after a nightmare? Tell his father about suffocating in a closed casket and the smell of decaying flesh that stuck in his nose longer and longer after every bad dream? No, none of those things… but there was something he wanted to say. He closed his fingers into fists; spread them back out over the tablecloth. He looked up and met John's eyes, "If something happens, I want to be cremated."

John's face paled, "Blaine, that's not something you have to—"

"If something happens," Blaine repeated; his voice a little louder; a little steadier, "I don't want to be stuffed full of chemicals and propped up in a casket."

John hesitated for only a minute before reaching out across the table and resting a hand over Blaine's steadier one, "Blaine, you're not going to die."

Blaine pulled his hand away and closed his eyes; willed himself not to yell. He opened his eyes, but even worse than feeling like he was about to scream, was the feeling that he might cry, "Dad, please, just—that's what I want."

John sat back in his chair and stared at Blaine; his expression anxious and tired; so incredibly tired.

The waitress came and removed their plates with a quiet murmur that she'd bring the check.

"…Have you looked into schools with good acting programs?"

Blaine blinked; had he missed something?

John sat up straighter; busied himself flipping through the cards in his wallet before pulling one out, "You're going to have to research programs if that's what you want to do next year."

That was it: next year. A future. His father wanted him to stay focused on there being a next year; a life to plan for. Blaine sighed; he'd kept his research a secret for a reason. His parents weren't ready to hear that sort of thing; they didn't want to think about that possibility. Blaine met his father's eyes, "I'll ask Rachel if she knows of anywhere good. She's in New York now."

John nodded a little too enthusiastically, "Maybe a dual degree—acting and…and…. is production a major?"

"I don't know," Blaine shrugged.

"A lot of options; a lot of things to think about," John nodded again, "I'm going to be out of town for a few days starting Thursday so we won't need you in the office then; maybe you and your friends could go to the library and see if there are any books on majors for actors; if you can't find anything, you can take my credit card and try a bookstore—"

"Dad?"

John looked at Blaine expectantly; desperately.

"I'll do all that, but… could we not talk about it right now?" Blaine looked back at the table he and Kurt had shared the previous summer, "I'm getting a headache."

"Oh my God, I have the worst headache." Kurt was talking as soon as he was through the door. He looked over at Bocelli's cage on the kitchen table, "You are so lucky you can sing and look pretty for a living without needing to pay rent."

Lucky for Kurt—and the steadily increasing tension in his head—Darcy had sent the interns home early, each with a stack of newspapers; and verbal instructions that Reese and Kurt had puzzled out to be that they had to cut the paper into strips and paint them the colors Darcy thrust into their arms before they could leave. He settled his supplies on the table and was about to move to his bedroom when something hanging over the arm of the couch caught his eye.

He stepped back closer to it, sure that he was seeing things, but no; it was exactly what he had thought it was. A Dalton blazer.

He picked it up and ran a finger over the red piping. The thick fabric and slight weight were familiar in his hands, as were the faint smell of cologne and smoke that greeted his nose as he turned the blazer over in his hands. He glanced back at the door, but there were only two pairs of shoes lined up beside the rug.

Kurt scrambled over to David's room and knocked on the door, "Excuse me, Mr. Karofsky, but you have some explaining to do and don't you dare try to den—"

David opened the door and blinked sleepily at Kurt, "I thought you weren't going to be home until six."

"My boss turned us loose early, and I believe I have a few questions I need to ask you about your day, too," Kurt shook out the blazer and held it in front of David, "Any particular reason this is here?"

Kurt had expected furious blushing; a stuttered babbling of excuses and a little anger to mask the embarrassment. Instead, David just blinked at the blazer until recognition seemed to dawn. His face fell, "I tried to text you this afternoon, but I didn't get a hold of you."

Kurt's smile slipped, "I haven't checked my phone at all today. Is everything okay?"

David leaned against his doorframe and rubbed his eyes, "I don't know."

Kurt frowned and moved to sit down on the couch.

David followed and took a seat on the other couch. He slouched down until his elbows rested on his knees, "Remember this morning how we talked about me telling more people about…about me being gay?"

Kurt nodded, "Yeah."

"Well, I guess it kind of got me to thinking—I mean I was thinking about it before—but it really got me to thinking, and you said you were gonna get lunch with your dad, and… I decided to see if my dad would go to lunch with me, too."

Kurt frowned; he had a feeling about where this conversation was going, "Okay…."

"I asked him to come over here so people wouldn't be around and listening and shit," David shifted almost uncomfortably.

Kurt sat up straighter; suddenly anxious, "You wanted to come out to him."

David nodded, but he was quiet; his eyes distant.

Kurt shifted forward a little on the couch, "Did you do it?"

David nodded.

"How'd he take it?" Kurt asked softly; fearful of the sadness etched into David's face.

"He… he said he still loved me, but he needed—" David cleared his throat, "He needed some time to adjust to it and stuff… and then he left."

Kurt was quiet.

"I… I called you because I was freaked out and I didn't know if what he did was normal and then you didn't answer, so I called Trip." David's eyes drifted toward the blazer folded on the couch beside Kurt.

"David, if he was an ass about anything, don't listen to him, he just—"

"He wasn't," David shook his head.

"Oh," Kurt tried to read more in David's face, but couldn't find anything, "Have you heard from your dad?"

David stared down at his feet, "No… Trip came over and then I must have fallen asleep."

Kurt couldn't help himself; he glanced at the blazer at his side, "So Trip came over, told you not to worry about things with your dad and then…. left?"

"He must have left while I was asleep." David evaded Kurt's gaze.

"You fell asleep mid-conversation?" Kurt raised an eyebrow.

"Sort of." David mumbled.

"In your bedroom."

"Yes."

"You brought Trip Morgan in your bedroom for a conversation that you fell asleep in the middle of."

"We made out, okay?" David snapped; his cheeks suddenly red.

"And?"

"What do you mean and?" David snapped.

"It was good? Bad? Is this the first guy you've made out with? Who initiated it?"

"Jesus, Hummel," David looked at Kurt in alarm, "I came out to my fucking dad today and he could barely look at me, can we focus on that?"

"Right; sorry," Kurt smoothed his hands over his lap, "How are you feeling? Are you glad you did it?"

"I don't know," David sank back into the couch, "Did you have to tell your dad?"

Kurt snorted, "Apparently not, but I did anyway."

David looked up from his knees, "How'd he take it?"

"He told me he wasn't in love with the idea, but he loved me regardless," Kurt smiled absently to himself.

"What about Blaine?"

"Blaine had a harder time of it," Kurt met David's gaze and sighed, "Look, David, it takes time; it takes work—on both of your parts—but being true to who you are… it's worth it; I promise."

David nodded, "I… I think I can do that."

"Good," Kurt stood and stretched, "I need to go call Blaine, but if you want to talk or something you know where I live."

David smiled, "Sure… and Kurt?"

Kurt turned in his doorway and looked expectantly at David.

"I… thank you," David glanced down at the floor and then back up at Kurt, "For everything, for… humoring me, I guess."

"Thanks for humoring me today and coming into the office, sport," John loosened his tie as he and Blaine made their way into the house.

Blaine smiled wearily, "You paid me, so I'd hardly call it just humoring you."

John chuckled, "I still appreciate you coming in."

"Thanks for bringing me… and for lunch."

John looked away from Blaine's face and turned his attention to pulling off his shoes.

"Oh, you're home early! What a nice surprise," Upon seeing them, Elizabeth immediately crossed the room to feel Blaine's forehead, "Honey, you look exhausted; do you feel alright?"

"I'm fine, Mom; really. I was just getting too accustomed to lying around all day," Blaine hung his jacket in the closet and glanced over his shoulder at her, "How was your day free of babysitting?"

"Honey, I don't babysit you," Elizabeth frowned, "And if I'm being honest, folding laundry and watching You've Got Mail without your running commentary inserted every three lines makes it seem like it drags on much longer than a couple of hours."

Blaine smiled and stooped to pick up his shoes, "Try watching with Kurt. He can make any Meg Ryan movie fly by."

Elizabeth laughed quietly, but then she was looking between John and Blaine searchingly, "You two had a nice day?"

John nodded, "Blaine did a fine job."

"I sorted and filed about fifty of three million pieces of paper." Blaine rolled his eyes.

"It was only your first day; you'll get the hang of it," Elizabeth smiled warmly and squeezed Blaine's hand gently, "It'll come in handy when you're some hot shot lawyer someday; you won't even need to hire an assistant because you'll know how to do all the filing yourself."

John cleared his throat awkwardly, "Blaine and I discussed him looking into the entertainment industry as a potential career path."

Elizabeth looked at John in genuine surprise, "Is that so?"

John nodded and looked back toward Blaine, "Blaine's going to start doing some research on good schools for that sort of thing."

Blaine didn't want to have this conversation again; he didn't want to watch the secondary silent conversation going on between his parents. He tucked his shoes under his arm and forced a yawn for show, "I'm pretty tired. I think I'm going to go upstairs and lie down."

Elizabeth kissed him on the cheek, "I'll call you down for dinner. Do you need anything now?"

"No, I'm fine. I'll let you know if I think of something though, I promise." Blaine jogged up the stairs and listened to the quiet murmur of conspiratorial whispers coming from downstairs until he closed his door and shut them out.

Normally, he'd take the time and care to put his shoes back in their proper box, but instead, he dropped them by the door and collapsed face down on his bed; relieved to feel the soft spring of his mattress beneath him. Even more comforting was the sound of his ringtone and Kurt's name on his Caller ID barely a minute later.

Blaine rolled onto his back and put his phone to his ear, "Are you magic?"

Kurt laughed on his side of the line, "A little, but I lose control of it sometimes; have I unwittingly cast a spell on you?"

"All kinds of them all the time," Blaine smiled up at his ceiling fan, "But today specifically, you're guilty of calling me just when I was thinking about you."

"That's only impressive if you don't think about me very often, and I caught you in one of the rare moments I pop into your head."

"Maybe it's not magic then," Blaine closed his eyes; the weariness of his day already melting from his bones.

"Maybe not," Kurt agreed, "How was your day? Have you given up on Cake Boss or are you just no longer sending me grainy pictures of your television screen when they make things you deem amazing?"

"Neither; I went into my dad's office and did some filing." Blaine rolled onto his stomach and shifted his phone to his other ear.

"You did? You didn't tell me you were going to do that today," Blaine could hear the quiet rustling of fabric on Kurt's side of the line, "Tell me about it."

Blaine shook his head even though he was well aware that Kurt couldn't see him, "It's boring, but it pays. Tell me about your job—should I be watching for window displays by Kurt Hummel?"

"No, no; but if anyone can make it as a pumpkin bedazzler, it's going to be me," Kurt laughed quietly, "But we were talking about you; tell me more about your day."

Blaine sighed into the receiver and he was sure the sound was crackling in the speaker against Kurt's ear on his side of the line. He suddenly desperately wanted to be with Kurt. He wanted to lay close and feel the warmth of his body and smell the familiar, cool smell of him and actually breath the same air as him, "I'm so glad you stayed."

Kurt was quiet for a moment, but when he spoke, Blaine could hear the smile in his voice, "Are you thinking about how this is the only way we could talk to each other if I was in the city and you were here?"

"Yeah," Blaine swallowed; suddenly irrationally choked up.

"Blaine, are you okay?" Kurt's voice was soft; concerned, "Do you need me to come over?"

"I—no, it's okay," Blaine cleared his throat, "It's… a tumor thing or something; my emotions are all out of sync."

"They are?"

Blaine smiled a little, "I don't know; I kind of just made the tumor thing up. But it's either that or I'm getting my period."

"I think this is the only time I will ever hope something with you is cancer related," Kurt laughed, "Now tell me more about work. Was it okay? Be honest."

"Honestly?" Blaine wiped at his eyes, '…it sucked. I screwed things up, I got pity smiles and I made a mess of the papers I was supposed to be putting away and I yelled at a woman I've never met in my life.' was what he wanted to say, but, at the same time, he didn't want to say any of those things, "It was fine."

"Blaine," Blaine could practically see Kurt rolling his eyes, "Details are your friends; elaborate."

"I…" Blaine traced the perimeter of the sore in his mouth with the tip of his tongue and wondered if he was just being paranoid or if it had actually gotten bigger. He finally let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding in, "It was long."

There was a momentary silence, "Are you sure you don't want me to come over?"

"Yeah; I'm okay… I just…can you talk for a while? I just want to listen to your voice," Blaine's eyes drifted to the picture of him and Kurt on his nightstand, "Please?"

Kurt was quiet again, "Okay… but you have to promise you'll stop bothering that spot in your mouth while you're listening. Don't deny you've been doing it; I know you."

"Promise," Blaine smiled.

"Good," Kurt took in a breath, "So you know how I started work today? My boss isinsane. I don't know if I hate her, admire her, or just think she should be institutionalized. She talks faster than I can and with the way she dresses and walks around she looks like a rainbow on a rampage—"

"Kurt?" Blaine interrupted quietly.

"Yeah?"

"What're you doing right now?"

"If this is an implication you changed your mind and you want me to come visit, then I'm currently grabbing my car keys and heading for the door."

"No, it's not that," Blaine traced a finger over the edge of his pillowcase, "I just want to have a mental picture."

He could hear Kurt shifting around, "I'm in my room laying on my bed."

"On your stomach or on your back?"

"My back."

Blaine rolled onto his back, too, and stared up at the ceiling, "Okay…keep going; you were talking about your boss."

"She sent me on this mission to get newspapers, but, like I said; she's a little unstable, so I got the hell out of there before asking how many she wanted, and guess how many I got? Actually, don't guess because you'll never get it," Kurt paused for dramatic effect, "ninety two! Ninety-two newspapers! My entire car still smells like a printing press, so I get back to the store…"

Blaine closed his eyes and listened to the familiar cadence of Kurt's voice and let it sooth him.

Kurt went on and on. He told Blaine about people at the store, about his projects, about the ideas already blossoming in his head for ideas for the displays. He shifted the topic to David's coming out to his dad and Trip coming to visit, but Blaine offered no comments more than a quiet word offered to prove he was still there listening.

Finally, Kurt's tempo wound down; his tone softened, "Blaine?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you sure you're alright?"

"I'm good… I'm better now," Blaine opened his eyes. The light had shifted outside while he had lain listening to Kurt. His ceiling was bathed in dusky orange sun and long blue shadows, "Your voice is like therapy, you know that? Like music."

Kurt laughed quietly, "Your entire presence is like therapy; like when hospitals have those dogs in the blue work vests that you can pet until you feel better, except you're cuter."

Blaine smiled; his eyes following the blue, slatted shadow of his blinds on the ceiling, "Can I ask you something?"

Kurt sighed loudly, "I suppose."

Blaine hesitated, "Have you ever had a reoccurring dream that you wanted to go away?"

"Yes," Kurt was quiet for a moment, "I used to have a dream I was locked in McKinley all alone. The lights would all turn off and I'd get lost and I couldn't get out."

"How'd you get it to go away?"

"Are you having bad dreams, Blaine?" Kurt's voice was soft; sweet.

"Just one." Please don't make me tell you about it. Blaine waited anxiously for Kurt to respond.

"…Do you have your Ipod handy?"

Blaine frowned in confusion but glanced toward his desk, "Yeah…"

"Go put it on your dock and pull up your playlists."

Blaine pushed himself up off of his bed and moved to his desk. He fumbled with his Ipod for a minute and nested the phone between his shoulder and ear, "Okay."

"There should be a playlist that just has a bunch of hearts for a title, do you see it?"

"Yeah… should I turn it on?"

"Yes—make sure it's not on shuffle and then go lay down."

Blaine hit play and returned to his bed, "Now what?"

"Now close your eyes and listen and think about nice things."

Blaine glanced at the clock on his nightstand, "Kurt, it's barely five."

"And you're tired; I can tell. Close your eyes… are they closed?"

"Mhm." Blaine shut his eyes and smiled.

"Are you listening to the music?"

"Mhm… can you hear it?"

"I'm listening to the same playlist here."

"You are?"

"Yes, now go to sleep."

"Where's hanging up the phone in that list of instructions?" Blaine yawned.

"I'll stay on the phone with you until you fall asleep."

"Is that one of the nice things I can think about?"

"Yes, it is. Keep listening to the music."

"I am…" Blaine yawned again, "Kurt?"

"What?"

"Can you sing along?"

"Do you promise you'll sleep if I do?"

"Yes." Blaine pushed back his comforter and climbed underneath.

"Are you thinking nice things?"

"I'm thinking nice things."

"Are your eyes closed?"

"They're closed." Blaine slid lower under his blankets; not caring that he was still in his day clothes or that he could hear the beginning of an argument breaking out somewhere downstairs. He felt his attention slipping; his body relaxing. Even as sleep clouded his thoughts, he listened to Kurt's voice; sweet and familiar through the phone. The sound followed him all the way into his dreams.

And all along I believed

I would find you

Time has brought your heart to me

I have loved you for a thousand years

I love you for a thousand more

I have died everyday waiting for you

Darling, don't be afraid

I have loved you for a thousand years

I love you for a thousand more