“—not supposed to be you here—“

Gently, Kurt lowered himself down onto the edge of the dock and sat with his legs hanging over the edge. He tugged down the front of his soft, fur-lined trapper hat and readjusted the standing collar of his thick coat, trying to cover as much bare skin as possible. There was little breeze to speak of, and the water was all but still in the hushed hour just after dawn. It was quiet, peaceful, and free from the chaos that had roiled in his mind since the night before Christmas Eve, when Blaine had arrived at the hospital wearing a shell-shocked expression, carrying a bunch of daisies. The memory was too sharp, too crisp, and no matter how much time Kurt had spent sleeping, or trying to occupy his waking hours with making sure that the twins weren’t following him down his well of despair, it still hung in his mind’s eye like a specter, haunting his every step.

Breath puffing out before him, Kurt buried his hands in his pockets and slowly closed his eyes, attempting to rid his mind of every last scrap of thought. He and Burt had visited Grand Lake in St Mary’s almost every weekend for months after his mom had died, and they would always wind up choosing the same dock upon which to sit—the lonely dock, they had called it, for they never saw a boat tied off there. It had been a curious thing at the time, the wood of the dock looking brand new, with hardly a mark upon it, and almost three decades later, it looked mostly the same but for some weathering.

Sitting there, alone with nothing but the dock as his anchor, it was something simple to imagine that the last two months had been a hellish dream from which he had finally awoken. To imagine that if he were to lie down on the morning-damp wood with just his feet dangling off the end, staring up into the lightness of the sky and remaining silent, soon Burt would be shoving a fishing rod into his hands and excitedly telling him to reel in whatever had taken the bait.

All the imagination in the world, however, didn’t change the facts.

“—tell you this, but… Kurt, sweetheart, I—it’s your dad, he—“

Blaine had stammered, and cried, and told some nonsense story about Burt having a stroke and dying in his sleep, and held Kurt’s hand so tightly that it hurt, but none of it had registered. Since that day, everything had seemed muted somehow. The burst of color that had ignited Kurt’s world when the doctors had told him he could go home for Christmas had been drained just as quickly.

It had just been so sudden, coming out of nowhere seemingly just for the sake of blindsiding them all, that he couldn’t make sense of it. His father was dead? No. Absolutely not. Kurt could have picked up the phone and had a conversation with him, grinning triumphantly that he’d proved them all wrong.

Every time he had picked up his phone to dial, though, his thumb would hover above the picture of Burt—still wearing the same plaid button-down, trucker cap, and crinkly-eyed smile as ever—until the screen dimmed and finally went black.

A sudden and sharp breeze whipped up around him, rippling across the water, and Kurt drew his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them and letting his chin drop. He hadn’t felt so small, or so young, in a very long time.

“—chartered a plane to get us home, and there’s a nurse coming with us—“

Blaine was trying. Really, he was. He had spent two months trying to make up for the fact that he was the last person, other than Carole, to have spoken to Burt. Two months trying to keep Kurt occupied so that he didn’t think about not being able to go back to Ohio for longer than a week, all because of the disease that kept him barely leaving the house.

After being married for almost twenty-one years—and together for twenty-nine—Kurt knew when his husband was concerned. He was well-versed in reading Blaine’s expressions and body language. He would cross his arms over his chest and knit his eyebrows together when he thought that Kurt was working himself too hard. His fingers would be splayed, eyes wide and open when Kurt would relay bad news out of the blue. His head would hang and his shoulders would slump when he was at his most worried, as he had been for almost the entirety of the previous six months.

The only other time Kurt had seen Blaine standing with his posture ramrod straight, hands curled into loose fists against his sides and gaze raised slightly upward, was at the funeral of William Anderson. And Kurt didn’t want to think about that at all—particularly not the way that Blaine’s eyes rested on him rather than some upward point of focus in the middle distance.

Kurt was fine; didn’t Blaine understand that? People were born, and people died. Life went on.

Except for when it didn’t.

But, ultimately, it had to—if not for Kurt’s sake, then at least for the sake of his family.

“—Carole is just beside herself, but Finn’s there right now—“

Somehow, in his daze of disbelief and almost complete denial, Kurt had made it through the hastily pulled-together funeral—held two days after Christmas, for heaven’s sake—and the reluctant journey home for New Year’s. He had slept through the ball dropping and most of the following day, finally waking up at around five p.m. to a place that felt so much more like a house than a home. All of the light and airy color schemes he’d taken great pains to slave over suddenly reminded him too much of hospitals, of where he had been when the deepest and darkest fears he carried, locked away in his subconscious, had been dragged out into the stark and sterile surroundings.

Upon waking, he hadn’t been able to hear music playing softly while the twins did their homework, like any regular Sunday; instead the house had been silent, and Oliver and Audrey had both been beneath the covers either side of him, each of them holding one of his hands. When Kurt had glanced over the top of Oliver’s dark curls, it was to see Blaine stretched out on the chaise below the window, covered in a thick blanket and lashes fanned over the dark circles beneath his eyes.

The worrisome sense of desolate togetherness had dragged Kurt into getting out of bed as quietly and carefully as possible, pulling on the first clean Henley and pair of yoga pants he’d found in the closet, and padding silently downstairs to make a start on dinner with grief weighing heavily in his bones.

“—had to go back to the house and pack a bag for you, and the kids are down in the car—“

The house had remained in a bubble of hush until the twins had gone back to school, brightening up for having something to do with their time. And all at once, life was going on much as it had been before Kurt had gone into hospital. He spent his mornings on the couch consuming fashion magazine after fashion magazine in an effort to get his head back in the game for when he eventually returned to work. He ate the lunch that Blaine had prepared before leaving to go to the studio, and his afternoons were given to pacing the back yard in order to build his strength back up. Blaine would leave work early to pick up the twins and bring them home, and Kurt would while away hours talking to them, asking them questions about everything he could think of.

When they were talking, he could focus his energies on concentrating, taking in what they were saying. It took up the last of his strength for the day, particularly if he’d pushed himself to his limits in the yard, and he would often find himself being shaken gently awake by Blaine in the evenings. Some nights he would make it up the stairs, and some nights Blaine would carry him as Kurt dozed with his forehead pressed to the skin of Blaine’s neck. Every single night, he curled into the fetal position, his back cold until Blaine slipped one arm beneath Kurt’s neck and the other around his waist.

He didn’t think about Burt. He didn’t talk about Burt. He had created something new, something functional, that didn’t involve needing to feel much of anything. It was a routine, and it was safe.

“—been over a month, Kurt, don’t you think we should talk about—“

The moment that Kurt felt everything crash down around his ears was on the morning of the memorial service. Burt had had to be buried, of course, but Carole had waited to hold a memorial until their friends, the majority of whom had all booked the same six-week cruise for the holidays, could make it back to Ohio. As a result, the memorial was almost two months to the day after Burt’s death.

He awoke from a particularly vivid dream at five-thirty a.m. in his old room, tangled beneath the covers and shivering against Blaine’s skin. Breathing deeply, he waited for his mind to begin whitewashing over the images of bicycle spokes, thick fingers holding a teacup, approving smiles, and grease-stained coveralls.

Blaine was already awake, soothingly trailing fingers back and forth along the arm that Kurt had clutched around his waist, and shifted to rest his cheek on top of Kurt’s head. His morning stubble had scratched at the sensitive skin of Kurt’s scalp where the hair was only just showing the first signs of growing back, and Kurt had shifted down just a little bit, his paranoia about disturbing its growth an ever-present gnawing in the back of his mind.

In the end, all it took to finally make Kurt crumble was seven words; a variation on the same question he had heard multiple times on a daily basis for months.

“Sweetheart, are you sure you’ll be okay?”

“—wish you would stop treating me like I’m made of glass, I’m not going to break—“

Getting out of bed, pulling on clothes and silently slipping down the stairs was still a blur over an hour later, and Kurt chewed at the inside of his mouth as he listened to the water lap beneath the dock. He had marched through the house, directionless, until ending up in the kitchen. Resting his forehead against the chilled steel of the refrigerator door, he took pause to breathe in the scents of the house that used to be his. So many nights spent sitting at the table with his dad, each talking about their own interests and the other trying to keep up. There were ghosts everywhere, their cold presences converging over him like a tidal wave and threatening to pull him under, never to resurface.

He needed air, and while the breeze grew stronger, he thumbed over the car keys in his pocket and let his eyes droop. He had time yet to find some measure of peace before it became imperative to go back, tail between his legs, and put up another fa�ade that would smile wanly and accept the requisite sympathies given to him as any well-adjusted person would.

Gradually, he let his knees drop and instead crossed his legs beneath himself, elbows resting on the insides of his thighs as he inhaled the clean scent of the air. The lake was calm, his surroundings serene. There was silence, save for the footsteps moving closer along the dock. Kurt wasn’t surprised—of course Blaine would have followed him.

“Blaine, I just need some time. Please.”

“—really scaring me, Julia. I know; you’re right. But he’s just so… There’s no light in his eyes anymore—“

“Not Blaine, actually,” a voice replied, and when Kurt turned to find out who his unwelcome companion was, it was the last person he would have ever expected to see. The last person he would have ever wanted to see. Someone he could happily have gone the rest of his life without running into, let alone on the morning of his last goodbye to his father.

“Sebastian?”

The name came out in a breathless, disbelieving rush as Kurt took in his rumpled clothes, the wide-framed glasses covering tired eyes, and the messy, backwards sweep of hair that was still a similar style. His shoulders were drawn up tight beneath his thick gray sweater, the fingers of one hand tucked into the pocket of worn-looking jeans, the other clutching a large travel mug like it held the meaning of life. Kurt couldn’t decide whether the lines around his mouth and at the corners of his eyes were from laughing too much or frowning too much, yet judging by his small and reluctant smirk, Kurt guessed the latter. Sebastian Smythe had barely aged a day, yet something about him spoke of living a lifetime too long.

“You’re still in Ohio?” Kurt asked.

Sebastian shook his head, flicking his eyes out over the water. “No. Just home from home.”

“—doesn’t even look like himself these days—“

“How did you know it was me?”

“I don’t know anyone else who holds their chin up quite that high. Other than me, of course,” Sebastian said smoothly, though his grin turned to a squint as the sun briefly broke through the thick blanket of cloud overhead. “I wasn’t entirely sure until you mentioned Blaine, though.”

Kurt hummed noncommittally, returning his attention to the lake and hoping that Sebastian would take the hint. No matter how many years had passed since high school, and no matter how many old grudges had been laid to rest, Sebastian’s presence felt like an intrusion into a sacred space.

“I’d really like to be alone,” he said after a few moments, inclining his head. “So, if you don’t mind…”

“Actually, I do. This is kind of my dock.”

“I don’t see your name on it,” Kurt said petulantly, a bite of anger nipping at his insides when Sebastian moved closer. He crouched down at the very end and gestured for Kurt to take a look. “If you push me in, Sebastian Smythe, I swear to god—“

“Kurt, just look.”

“—Daddy, Papa’s not moving. He’s just sitting there again. Should I—“

Swinging his legs out of the way, Kurt thought better of leaning over and instead lay down along the wood to peer over at the end. Sure enough, engraved into the side of the thick wood, was the legend ‘SMYTHE’. Kurt sighed heavily as he pushed himself up and got to his feet, brushing off the front of his coat and pants.

“Fine, you win. I’m leaving,” he spat.

“Kurt, wait. I…” Sebastian trailed off, making an aborted motion as if to reach out to him. He glanced down at the travel mug in his hand, and held it up. “Coffee? You look like you could use it.”

“It’s not like you’ve never looked better,” Kurt scoffed, settling his hands on his hips. “I’ve got no blood; what’s your excuse?”

“Do you want the damn coffee or not?”

“Thank you,” Kurt said, reluctantly taking the mug and musing that it would probably be nice if both halves of his brain were awake for whatever was about to transpire. He paused with the mug raised to his mouth, steam curling wetly beneath his nose. “There isn’t booze in this, is there?”

“I haven’t done that in years,” Sebastian replied, his tone light yet wistful. “How’d you even know about that?”

“Blaine,” he answered simply, finally taking a sip and reveling as the taste washed over his tongue.

“Right. Of course. You guys were Paul and Joanne even back in high school,” Sebastian murmured, shifting so that his forearm rested on his raised knee, and he pushed his glasses higher up his nose with his free hand as he stared out at the lake. “And how is Captain Bowtie these days?”

“—to defend you, even if I know you’re wrong—“

“He still has both eyes intact,” Kurt snapped, the urge to jump to his husband’s defense always an immediate, bristling rush as soon as anyone said something that could even be remotely construed as unnecessarily harsh or critical. He closed his eyes, suddenly remembering the man sitting at the end of the dock as nothing more than a confused, sad, guilty boy trying to right a wrong, and moved to take a seat in the small space next to him. “Sorry. I’m… Sorry.”

Silence, though nothing of the comfortable quiet he was used to with Blaine, overtook them. Kurt gratefully drank down the coffee by the mouthful—it was a good blend, rich and aromatic, and Sebastian had added just enough sugar to smooth the bitter edge—until the tension became unbearable and he set the mug down next to Sebastian. “I’d love to hear the story behind this dock,” Kurt murmured, trying to put off the inevitable ‘what are you doing back in Ohio’ conversation. “Why is there never a boat here?”

“Because there isn’t a boat to put here,” Sebastian said succinctly, clasping his hands and lacing his fingers together. Kurt noted, with no small measure of surprise, the slim gold band on his ring finger. Sebastian shrugged, and added matter-of-factly, “there would have been, but then Mom left.”

“Oh. So it was just you and your dad?”

“Pretty much. Belle—Annabelle, my sister—she’d already set up house with her husband, so it was just us. Actually, most of the time it was just me, with my dad’s work keeping him busy.”

“Is that why you were always such an asshole?” The words slipped from Kurt’s mouth before he could stop them, and while he wasn’t feeling particularly accommodating, he hadn’t intended for the question to be such a barb.

Sebastian regarded him coolly for a long moment, and then his lips began to twitch and he was taken over by a laugh that made Kurt relax, not even having realized he had been coiled like a spring. “You know, it’s actually refreshing for someone to put it like that instead of—well. It’s good to be called on your bullshit once in a while. My hus—“

He cleared his throat, turned his wedding band around on his finger in a way that seemed subconscious, and offered Kurt a tight smile. “So, what are you doing back in Ohio? Shouldn’t you be in Milan for Fashion Week?”

“—maybe being back at work will do him good. It’s just so—“

Kurt winced, and rubbed at his chest where his central line still rested, unconnected yet a constant reminder of all he had to look forward to upon his return to New York. He was still having weekly blood transfusions, seemingly without an end in sight. He had come through the bone marrow transplant, the graft-versus-host disease, and yet he seemed no better than before, though his constant fatigue had lessened somewhat. Mentions of the job he had been forced to leave stagnating in one of the world’s most frenetically paced industries made him itch for it to already be March, so that he could get back to the office, sit at his upcycled airplane-wing desk, get in front of his light box and start creating things again.

“There’s a memorial service today for my dad,” he said, wanting to wince again at how lifeless his own voice sounded. Sebastian’s head jerked sharply towards him, and he wore an expression that was both surprised and sad. Kurt didn’t want pity from anyone, least of all Sebastian Smythe, so he quickly changed the subject and nodded towards Sebastian’s left hand. “How long have you been married?”

Sebastian blinked down at his ring, as if remembering all at once that it was even there. He swallowed. “Four and a half years.”

“What’s his name? What’s he like?” Kurt asked, immediately intrigued by the man who had been able to get Sebastian Smythe—someone who had proclaimed to meet the man of his dreams and break up with him in the space of twenty minutes—to settle down.

“Matthew. I called him Matt, because he hated it. But he called me Seb, and I couldn’t stand that, either,” he said, the note of fondness in his voice undercut by something heavier, sadder. It didn’t escape Kurt’s notice that Sebastian was speaking in past tense. “He was a vet. We, uh. I was living in Chicago and we met at a bar—he was there on vacation. He, um—he changed my life. We fucked for a week almost non-stop and then the next thing I knew, I was moving to New York to be with him.”

“The sex was that good?” Kurt joked, trying to ease some of the dark tension that had settled.

“Incredible,” Sebastian said, with a conspiratorial glance. “He was an asshole, but he had the biggest heart. Best man I’ve ever known.”

“—the best man I’ve ever known. I’m so lucky to be here today—“

“Sebastian, I don’t mean to pry, but… Are you two not together anymore?”

“He died.”

At that word, Kurt’s stomach lurched and bile burned at the back of his throat. All he could think of was Blaine. He had lost his father, yes, but for all that it had come out of the blue, he had known it to be on the cards someday. The prospect of losing the love of his life was hell beyond imagining, and in that moment, he realized that all of the whispered conversations he’d heard only snatches of over the past two months, too lost in his own grief and denial to pay attention, had been Blaine terrified that Kurt was slipping further and further away from him. He saw, for the very first time, exactly the kind of bruises he’d been wreaking upon his marriage, and his heart began to ache for an entirely new and different reason.

Hesitantly—it was still Sebastian, after all—Kurt reached over and gently squeezed his hand. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through. I’m sorry that you have to.”

“It was just such a—such a waste. We were so happy. For fuck’s sake, we were about to have a kid, and then just as we got the positive, he had to go and get hit by a fucking car, of all the fucking clich�s—“ Sebastian stopped short, closing his eyes and breathing in deeply through his nose. “I know it wasn’t his fault. I’m just so fucking angry. And I have no idea what to do about the goddamn surrogate, either. She’s eight months.”

“—you remember, Kurt? All those midnight Taco Bell runs? Will you come back to—“

“Do you have people in New York who can help? Or… Or you could come back to Ohio, or move near your sister?”

“I could never leave New York. I love my kids too much.”

“Your… kids?”

“I’m a teacher,” Sebastian explained. “Elementary.”

“Which school?” Kurt asked, mind racing. Sebastian, a teacher? An elementary school teacher, no less? In what universe was that a reality?

“PS 63 in the East Village. William fucking McKinley, would you believe it?”

“Do they have a tiny glee club?”

“No, thank god,” Sebastian said, with a genuine laugh. “Actually, there’s this little guy in my class, Thomas—and you can’t call him ‘Tom’, or there’s hell to pay—and he reminds me of you. The first morning he walked in, I sat there and asked myself, ‘how is this my life?’”

“—all you wanted was a pair of sensible heels—“

“How did you wind up as a teacher? I always figured you for a lawyer.”

“My niece and nephew. They’ve always been so smart, and on the weekends when Belle would bring them to visit they’d bring their homework, and I used to help them with it. Kind of set me up for life.”

“So… It’s obvious that you love kids,” Kurt began carefully, after a pregnant pause. “Why are you having trouble with the idea of your own?”

Sebastian sighed, and wrung his hands together. “Matthew’s the ‘dad’. I… I don’t know. I’m terrified. Not for me—for the kid. For my son. I’m scared that I won’t love him enough. And what the hell would Matthew think of me trying to go it alone?”

“Sebastian, it’s… Obviously I never knew Matthew, so you can tell me to stay out of it if you want, but if this was something you were doing together, I’m sure he would have wanted you to go through with it,” Kurt said gently, trying to gauge with every word whether he was overstepping. “And before the twins were born, I was scared, too. But you’ll never truly know how much love you have to give until the first time you look at them. There’s nothing like it.”

“How old are yours, now?” Sebastian asked, artfully dodging the topic. “You have two, right?”

“Oliver and Audrey. They’ll be—god, fourteen this year,” Kurt said, before continuing, “Ollie’s been saying he wants to be a doctor ever since he went with Blaine to one of his platelet donations, and Audrey’s been making noises lately about politics, because of… Because of my dad.”

“—want to change the world, even just a little bit of it, like Grandpa—“

“Your dad whose memorial it is today,” Sebastian stated. “The one you’re avoiding.”

“I’m not avoiding it. It’s not until this afternoon,” Kurt replied haughtily.

“Come on, Kurt. You’re sitting here talking to me instead of being at home with your husband and family. And let’s face it: we fucking hated each other in high school. So yeah, I’d say you’re avoiding it,” Sebastian said, rolling his eyes and sounding so much like his high school self that Kurt couldn’t help but bristle. Sebastian’s tone softened, however, when he added, “sort of feels like everyone’s talking to you but they’re not actually listening, right?”

“Yes, actually,” Kurt said, surprised. “For the past six months of my life, everyone has just seen me as this… No one will talk to me, not even Blaine. They’re talking to the disease, and to the grief, and I’m so tired of it.”

“So make them talk to you. The Kurt Hummel I knew wouldn’t take that crap from anyone,” Sebastian said, and it was so simple a statement that Kurt almost reeled back from the truth of it—the reminder of who he used to be, who he had buried in order to function on a day-to-day basis. He missed that Kurt. “Look, I know we’re not exactly friends, or even acquaintances anymore, really, but… You can just talk, if you want. It’s not like there’s anything else interesting going on around here.”

“I don’t know, you could go look at the lighthouse.”

“Funny. Now, talk.”

Kurt took a deep breath, scrabbling for the key to the box he’d locked away deep in the recesses of his mind. Where to even begin?

“—if you’re waiting for me to fall apart, you’ll be waiting a long time—“

“I can’t remember the last words that I said to him,” he began. “He called me the last night I was in the hospital, and I fell asleep two minutes into the conversation. And it’s… Before the bone marrow transplant, before Blaine had to go for the harvest, I made sure to—because you hear those stories, about people who go under anesthetic and never wake up, right? So I—I… I said as much of a goodbye as I could. And I never did that with my dad, because he was my dad, and dads are invincible.

“Blaine’s mom and Carole have been great, and I’m glad that they have each other to lean on. I can’t even imagine what Carole’s going through, losing another husband. But… Suddenly I have an abundance of mothers and all I want is my dad back. Even for five minutes, just so I can tell him what I need to tell him.”

“The last thing I ever said to Matthew was, ‘don’t get that fucking chowder again’,” Sebastian deadpanned, and Kurt let out a shocked laugh. “Kurt, unless you know it’s coming, you’re never going to get to say everything you want to. You just have to remember that whoever that person is that you’ve lost, they knew how much you loved them and… And that has to be enough, because it’s all you have.”

“Kurt?”

At the sound of Blaine’s voice, both Kurt and Sebastian turned to glance back at the shoreline. Blaine was standing a few paces back from the dock, his curls flat on one side and sticking up on the other, with his coat buttoned up wrong, a hollow and pained expression on his face.

“—no, Twist, of course we’re not getting... Why would you even think—“

“You should go to him,” Sebastian said in a low voice. “Tell him everything you just told me, because he obviously needs to hear it. And just… Just let him back in. Don’t be so stubborn that it ends up breaking you two.”

“Thank you,” Kurt whispered, briefly touching Sebastian’s shoulder before getting to his feet. He turned to face Blaine and walked the short distance back to him, cutting off whatever he had opened his mouth to say by throwing his arms around him.

There was a pause where Blaine remained stiff, surprised, and then he was returning the embrace tighter than ever, the cool skin of his stubbled jaw pressing into the hollow of Kurt’s neck and his fingertips digging into Kurt’s back, the same as always.

“Are you back?” Blaine asked, his voice small.

“Almost,” Kurt whispered, and Blaine’s fingertips dug in even harder. “I love you, and I’m sorry.”

“I really thought I was losing you,” he said, heaving a great sigh as he stepped back. “Are you okay?”

“No. But I think I will be.”

Blaine’s gloved hands rubbed up and down his arms as he cast a look over Kurt’s shoulder. “Is that who I think it is?” he asked, and Kurt nodded. “What’s he doing here? Last I heard from Nick, he was in Chicago.”

“Long story; I’ll tell you later. Just give me a minute?”

“—don’t know if he’s ever going to come back to me, not from this—“

Sebastian didn’t look up when Kurt was next to him once more, just continued to look out at the lake. “Do you need a ride, or… anything?”

“I think I’ll stay a while longer,” Sebastian murmured, fiddling with his ring again. “But thanks.”

“Will you think about what I said?” Kurt asked meaningfully, and Sebastian nodded. After a moment’s pause, Kurt pulled his wallet from his pocket and took out a business card, crouching down to hand it to Sebastian. “Use this, or don’t. It’s up to you. But if you wanted to meet for coffee back in the city, or something… I’d like to meet your son.”

Sebastian sniffed harshly, only meeting Kurt’s eyes in fleeting glances as he took the card. “I’ll—yeah. Thanks.”

“Take care, Sebastian,” Kurt said, making his way back towards where Blaine was waiting, hand outstretched. He took it and placed it in the crook of his own elbow, feeling a little lighter and a lot more ready to face what he was about to. Kurt was ready to take the first steps along the path he should have begun treading nearly two months previously, with Blaine by his side and something heavy—but something that he was prepared to deal with—hanging next to his heart.

It was time.