**** May/June 1895 ****

Chapter 16

Blaine, for his part, missed Kurt desperately, but knew he would be unable to contact him while still in St. Augustine and under the watchful gaze of his grandfather. Even if he could have found a way, Kurt had made it clear he wanted nothing to do with Blaine. Every day after their fight, he watched Kurt make his way to Felix de Crano's studio, not re-emerging for hours on end.

He once caught a glimpse of Kurt's broad shoulders at dinner, but he was gone just as quickly as he had appeared, reminding Blaine of a phantom and leaving him wondering if he had imagined it.

His last afternoon in St. Augustine was gray and overcast; the heat of a New York summer had begun to creep in with the humid Florida spring season, and his clothes clung to him like a droopy second skin. His thick curls could not be tamed even by extra pomade, which only held for a few scant moments once he was outside. Even Quinn, who rarely vocalized her complaints, was in poor spirits thanks to the sticky heat of the sleepy city.

"I'll be glad to get back to New York," she said to Blaine as they took the air in the orange groves, where the shade helped to ease some of the discomfort from the rising temperatures. "This heat is oppressive." She flicked her fan rapidly as if to emphasize her words.

"You're not feeling faint, are you?" Blaine asked, taking in her flushed face and inelegant movements.

"No, just hot," she replied. "But I wouldn't say no to a cool drink."

"Of course," Blaine replied. "Follow me. I believe Mrs. Anderson made some lemonade just this morning. I'm sure she'd love the company."

"Only if you think it's not too much trouble," Quinn said politely.

"Not at all," Blaine said, smiling. "And there's usually a good cross breeze in the parlor this time of day."

The couple headed west toward Markland, Quinn's left hand resting delicately in the crook of Blaine's elbow, her fan keeping a rapid pace as she chatted about the perils of packing after a long stay.

"Mother insisted I let the maid do it, but I like to know where my own things are," Quinn said. "I reminded her that I'm going to be married, and I can look after myself."

"And what did she say to that?" Blaine asked.

"Nothing. I think I shocked her," Quinn said proudly.

Blaine truly had grown fond of Quinn the past few months. He certainly didn't think he would be so lucky to be marrying a woman he genuinely cared for, especially not after meeting and falling in love with Kurt, but he found her compelling and intelligent — even if she wasn't Kurt.

Against his own wishes, his mind wandered to Kurt, who was most likely back in New York by now. Blaine wasn't proud of the fact he'd been keeping tabs on the Hummel men, but it comforted him to know Kurt's whereabouts, whether it be Mr. de Crano's studio or on a train headed north.

It occurred to Blaine that he hadn't seen the painter in more than a week, and resolved to call on the man before he left town the following morning.

Ascending the steps on the front porch of Markland, Blaine was uncertain if he should knock or walk right in. He tried to remember what was customary, now that his grandfather was married and Blaine was still technically a guest, but his brain had somehow scrubbed that particular detail from his memory.

"Are you going to knock?" Quinn asked, her voice soft as she tilted her head in inquiry.

"Oh, yes... of course," Blaine said, raising his fist to the door.

It only took a few moments for Jenkins to come to the door. "Mr. Blaine," he said. "And Miss Fabray. How nice to see you again."

"Hello, Jenkins," Quinn replied as he held the door and stepped aside for her to enter.

"We were hoping to call on Miss Mary," Blaine offered.

"In here, Blaine," Mrs. Anderson called from the front parlor.

With a nod to Jenkins, Blaine escorted Quinn into the parlor, where his grandfather and his new bride were seated. Mary set aside her needlepoint when they entered, and she nudged Dr. Anderson, forcing him to set aside his newspaper.

"Lucy, what a pleasant surprise," Mary said. "I had hoped to see you again before you head north."

"The parlor looks lovely, Mrs. Anderson," Quinn replied. "I love the new colors."

"Oh, thank you, dear. Andrew said it was too garish, but I assured him it's the height of fashion."

"Indeed it is, Dr. Anderson," Quinn offered, her congenial smile attempting to charm him into submission.

It must have worked, because Dr. Anderson laughed. "Can't argue with two of you," he said. "Blaine, why don't we let the ladies talk and you and I can have a cigar in the library."

Blaine nodded curtly, and spared a glance over his shoulder for Quinn as he followed his grandfather into the next room.

Dr. Anderson crossed to the sideboard and poured them each a whiskey. He handed one to Blaine before lighting a cigar and taking his usual seat by the fireplace; he raised an eyebrow as if to ask Blaine why he wasn't seated in the chair opposite him. Without a word, Blaine complied, delicately sipping his whiskey as he let the silence breathe for a moment.

"I expect you not to go looking for the Hummel boy when you're back in New York," Dr. Anderson said without preamble, lighting his fat cigar and shaking the match vigorously, all without making eye contact with Blaine.

It wasn't a question, and Blaine didn't respond.

"Mr. Fabray tells me you inquired about getting married this year."

Blaine nodded. "I thought it would be for the best, given the circumstances."

A halo of cigar smoke hovered around Dr. Anderson's head, giving him an ominous look, the faint wisps of white snaking in and out of his thick mustache and working its way toward Blaine, choking his lungs.

"I'm glad you're finally coming to your senses," his grandfather said.

"Well, it's not as if I had much of a choice."

His grandfather huffed, flicking the ash from his cigar into the fireplace. "Why must you always be so damned insolent, boy?" he barked.

"Must be in my blood," Blaine retorted. "Anderson men come by their disdain honestly."

"That mouth of yours will get you into trouble some day. Mark my words," Dr. Anderson replied, sighing heavily. He sipped his whiskey, blue eyes piercing over the edge of the glass as Blaine pulled his cigarette case from his pocket and lit one. Watching Blaine intently, he said, "I've had my lawyer rework my will. You are to have no more contact with that boy. Visit the bath houses... or the Bowery clubs; I don't care, but you will never see him again."

"Yes, sir," Blaine gritted out between clenched teeth.

"I mean it," Dr. Anderson warned. "Do not test me. You will not win."

Blaine stood to take his leave. "Are we finished?" he spat.

"For now," came the terse reply. "Give Quinn my regards."

"You're not joining us?" Blaine asked, feeling relieved.

"I need to visit the hospital," he said gravely. "I expect you home for–"

"Darling?" Mary called from the parlor.

A heavy sigh punctuated Blaine's foul mood as his grandfather stood and pushed past him and into the parlor. Blaine had no choice but to follow.

"Yes, dear?"

"I was just telling Quinn how lovely she'd look with some jewels in her hair for the wedding. Would it be alright if I let her borrow my emerald hair combs?"

"As you wish, darling; they're yours. But are you sure? You haven't even worn them yet."

Mary waved off her husband's concern. "I'll wear them eventually," she said. "Besides, they'd be so lovely in her fair hair... and those green eyes." She sighed dreamily and smiled at Blaine. "You'll have the most beautiful bride in New York."

"I am a lucky man," Blaine said, although his words had no emotion behind them.

As Mary called for Jenkins to fetch the combs, Blaine's grandfather gave him a stern sidelong glance.

Blaine ignored the warning, though. "Quinn darling, we should probably be getting back. Your mother will want you for tea."

Quinn smiled, but it was pinched. "Oh, of course," she said, rising to her feet without complaint.

"I'll have someone send the combs over before dinner," Mary offered.

"Thank you so much, Mrs. Anderson. We'll see you in July for the wedding?" Quinn said as she picked up her gloves and fan.

"Of course, dear," Mary said, rising from her chair to see her guests to the door.

"I'll escort Miss Fabray back to the hotel," Blaine said, eyeing his grandfather carefully, "but I'll be back for dinner.

He gripped Quinn's elbow more forcefully than was necessary and pulled her from the parlor.

"Blaine," she protested when they were on the porch, the heavy door closed behind them. "You're hurting me."

Pulling his hand away like it had betrayed him, Blaine recoiled. "Forgive me." He found himself quite unable look at her, though, instead turning his attention to his shoes and noting a heavy scuff on the toe of the left one.

"Of course," she replied, her tone terse and cold. "Let's head back."

Blaine nodded slowly, noting that Quinn did not loop her hand through his crooked elbow as she usually did. He stuffed his hands in his pockets like a remorseful child, and they walked back to the Ponce in silence.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Miss Fabray," he said, kissing her gloved hand before leaving her standing in stony silence at the door of the suite.

Without really considering his path, Blaine found his way to the artists' studios, stopping outside studio number one as if his feet had led him there of their own accord. He raised his fist to knock but froze with his knuckles mere inches from the door.

"What am I doing?" he said out loud.

"Looks like you're knocking."

Blaine wheeled around to find himself face-to-face with Felix de Crano. "Mr. de Crano," he gasped, "you gave me a fright."

Laughing so deeply his beard shook with the force of it, the man said, "I knew I looked scruffy like an old dog, but I didn't think it was that bad."

"Oh, I didn't mean... that is... I—" A hand on his arm stopped his rambling.

"Relax, Mr. Anderson, you gave me no offense."

"I'm glad, Mr. de Crano. Seems I can do no right these days." He followed the painter into his studio and closed the door behind him.

"To what do I owe such a pleasure?" Felix asked. "I thought nearly everyone had gone back to New York."

"I'm leaving in the morning," Blaine said. "I thought I should come say goodbye."

"You've been absent these past weeks. Mr. Hummel was here every day for a fortnight, and yet you were not." His thick eyebrow nearly disappeared into his round cap as he spoke.

"We... had a fight," Blaine replied honestly.

"I imagined such a thing," de Crano said with a nod. He began organizing supplies and mixing his paint with a chemical that stung Blaine's nose. He covered his nose with his sleeve until the odor dissipated; the painter didn't seem to mind as he leaned forward, squinting to inspect the paint. "He was quite put out."

Blaine dropped his arm. "He was?"

"Mmmhmm." The old man did not look up, instead picking up a fat paintbrush and dabbing it in the now-thinned emerald paint.

"What did he say?" Blaine inquired, trying not to sound too desperate for the answer, even though his heart had begun racing, threatening to thud right out of his chest.

"I should not betray his confidence," Mr. de Crano said into his canvas. "But why don't you tell me your side."

Blaine sighed and seated himself on a nearby stool. "There's not much to tell," he said. "We quarreled, and he's gone. End of story."

"Why is that the end?"

"He said his goodbyes, and I have not heard from him since. I think his intent was clear."

"Do you really think that's where your tale ends?"

"I'm afraid so," Blaine said, leaning on the drawing table to his right. His elbow struck the corner of a canvas, causing him to wince. As he rubbed the sore spot, he glanced down at the offending object and saw his own likeness staring up at him.

"Is that... ?" Blaine couldn't finish the sentence, his vision blurred behind the watery veil of his own tears.

"Mr. Hummel painted that. Left it with me. Said it reminded him of broken heart."

"He said that?" Blaine said, caressing the fine brush strokes as if they were Kurt himself. At Mr. de Crano's silent confirmation he swallowed heavily. "Then you know the truth of us?" It was not a question really, and so there was no answer.

They were both silent for a few moments, giving Blaine a chance to study the painting. It was a simple portrait — just his head and shoulders, the edge of his cravat fading into the edge of the canvas — but the detail in the amber of his eyes was astonishing. Blaine knew the way the light reflected golden in his eyes from gazing upon his own face in the mirror, but there was something almost captivating about the way Kurt had painted him. Was that what Kurt saw when he looked upon him? It was no wonder Kurt looked at him with such adoration if he got that in return. But all Blaine could think of was the things he had said to Kurt that night. The things Kurt had said. He felt sick.

As if he had read Blaine's mind, Felix approached him and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Sometimes, my young friend, we say things we do not mean when we are hurting. It does not mean we do not care. Quite the opposite, in fact."

"But he's gone, and I'm forbidden to see him," Blaine said, turning his head to look up at the painter.

"Gone does not mean forever. Not if you don't want it to."

"I'm afraid I don't have a choice, Mr. de Crano."

"There is always a choice," Felix replied.

"You sound like Kurt," Blaine said, his voice cracking on a choked-back laugh.

"Then he is smarter than I thought."

The trip back to New York was long and lonely, despite the fact that Blaine was sharing a Pullman car with the Fabrays. Leaving St. Augustine made him miss Kurt anew, as if they had only just parted that day. Blaine's heart ached to be near him, and even as the train moved him closer to Kurt's physical being, he knew they would remain far apart.

With Quinn still bristling from Blaine's misstep the day before, he found himself sitting alone, staring out the window, watching the marshland give way to the red earth of Georgia and thinking about what Mr. de Crano had said.

Did he have a choice? Could it really be that simple?

Blaine didn't even know where Kurt lived — not that it would be terribly difficult to find out. But what then? Would they simply marry Rachel and Quinn and pretend all their lives that they were something they were not? Not to mention, if Blaine were ever caught with Kurt again, his family would disown him. He couldn't do that to Quinn.

He was interrupted from his thoughts when Mr. Fabray took the seat opposite him and offered him a cigarette.

"No, thank you," Blaine said.

Mr. Fabray shrugged and lit one for himself. "Ready to get back to the city?" he asked, pocketing his matchsafe.

"Mmm, I suppose," Blaine said, giving him a half smile and returning his gaze to the window, the landscape blurring into a nondescript haze of green and brown as it passed by.

"Chin up, Anderson. You'll have plenty of time to yourself before you're saddled with a wife," he laughed raucously as he nudged Blaine's knee, giving weight to his lewd meaning.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Blaine said uncooperatively.

"Oh, come on... you're a warm-blooded young man," Mr. Fabray said. "There's no shame in finding a soft body to warm your bed until you settle down."

Blaine felt his stomach churn, scarcely believing a father would give his permission to his daughter's intended in such a manner. "I assure you, it's not necessary," he spat.

"Suit yourself," Mr. Fabray said. He leaned back and took a drag of his cigarette, watching Blaine as he exhaled. "You're a queer sort, aren't you? Your grandfather warned me, but I told him he was being overly cautious."

"Sir?"

"Please, Blaine, we're practically family. Call me Russell." He twirled the end of his blond mustache around his index finger. It seemed a comically villainous gesture under the circumstances.

Blaine bit his lip to keep from laughing. "Russell," he said, leveling his future father-in-law with a reproachful look, "why don't you tell me what's really on your mind?"

"And smart, too... that's good." A leering smile found it's way to Mr. Fabray's face. He sucked on the end of his cigarette and leaned forward in his seat. "I want you to come work with me. Run the factory. I'm getting on in years, and I'd like my Lucy to have a comfortable life."

"I– Well, that is... thank you?" Blaine said.

"No need to thank me. This is as much for my benefit as yours. I need the help, and this keeps it in the family – saves me from hiring some ladder-climbing cretin."

"I'm sorry... I meant no, thank you," Blaine said softly. "I have an offer from Mr. Flagler to run his New York hotels, and at any rate, I wouldn't know how to run a factory."

"You know as much as you do about running a hotel," Russell scoffed. "Don't be imprudent."

"No, really. I thank you for your faith in me, but it's not right for me."

Russell Fabray's pale face flushed scarlet, his nostrils flaring comically. "You think I give two cents what's right for you?" he hissed. "I will not have my daughter married to a penniless writer and begging her family for handouts because he wasn't man enough to provide for her properly."

Clenching his hands into fists, Blaine breathed harshly through his nose, trying to keep himself from striking Mr. Fabray. "I can provide for my wife," he said, lowering his voice so it didn't carry to where Quinn and her mother were seated a few feet away. "I don't need your help."

"Needed or not, you will accept it." Mr. Fabray stood, his shadow falling over Blaine like a menacing specter. "This is not open for discussion."

Before Blaine could reply, he was gone. It didn't really matter much; there was nothing for him to say. It was just another brick in the wall that had surrounded him, caging him like a wild animal without the means to fight back. And really, there was no point in trying.

The sunlight glistened off the river they were crossing, sparkling like the facets of the diamond Quinn wore on her finger — like Kurt's eyes.

He wiped the memory from his mind, no longer wishing to remember what his life had been for the brief time he had known true love. It was better if he numbed himself to the beauty of the world and simply allowed it to blur together like the landscape racing by his window. This was his fate: a cold heart and a muted existence. He only hoped Kurt would fare better.

Blaine's Aunt Clarissa met them at the train station, a bundle of lush roses and a smaller clutch of daisies in her plump arms. His father's sister, Clarissa looked very much like the Anderson side of the family with her piercing blue eyes and her dark hair, but her temperament was altogether different. She had always treated Blaine as a favorite, doting on him as a child and befriending him when he was grown.

"Rissy," he effused, gripping her in a big hug. "Father didn't tell me you were meeting us."

"I thought I'd surprise you," she said, her perfectly straight teeth gleaming through her smile. "And meet your beautiful fiancée."

"Of course," Blaine said, feeling lighter than he'd felt in days. "Where are my manners? Darling, this is my Aunt Clarissa."

"Mrs. Gibb," Clarissa said, extending a hand to Quinn. "You must be Miss Fabray."

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Gibb," Quinn said, her smile and small curtsy the picture of propriety.

"Oh, she's good," Clarissa said, nudging Blaine with her shoulder. She turned back to Quinn and presented her with the daisies. "I also brought roses for your darling mother," she added, craning her neck to look for Quinn's escorts. "Where is she?"

"She insisted the porters would mishandle the artwork she bought and wanted to see it unloaded personally. She'll be along shortly," Quinn said.

"I don't blame her," Clarissa said. "The last time I sailed from Europe, they broke a gilded mirror I had bought for my parlor. What an aggravation getting it replaced."

"Oh, how dreadful," Quinn said, looking genuinely empathetic.

"I just threw money at it like I always do," Clarissa said with a laugh.

Blaine laughed openly for the first time in days. His aunt's sense of humor and down-to-earth way of expressing herself had always endeared Blaine to her. Although, it astounded him that she had come from the same family as his father and grandfather. She was nothing like them.

Quinn, laughing nervously, as if she didn't know how to respond to a woman like Clarissa Gibb, smiled suddenly, looking relieved. "Here comes my mother," she said.

"Lucy dear, we should get going," her mother said as she approached on the arm of Mr. Fabray.

"Of course, Mother," she said. "Mr. Anderson was just introducing me to his aunt."

"Russell Fabray... Pleased to meet you," Quinn's father said, extending his hand.

"The pleasure is mine, Mr. Fabray," she said, and turned to Judith. "And this must be your lovely wife." The ladies shook hands and Clarissa presented Mrs. Fabray with the roses.

"They're lovely, Mrs. Gibb," she said.

Blaine fidgeted a little, wiggling his toes inside his shoes and pulling his watch from his pocket to check the time. "Aunt Clarissa, we should get going if we want to make it back in time for dinner. I'm sure Mother has planned a feast for me."

"It was supposed to be a surprise," Clarissa said. "At least act surprised. She'll murder me for spoiling it."

"Of course," Blaine replied, kissing her rosy cheek.

He turned to Russell Fabray and held out his hand. "Russell, thank you for everything. I'll call on you some time next week."

"Think about my offer, Blaine," Russell said, squeezing his hand tighter than was necessary.

Blaine grimaced, but did not back down. "Certainly," he said, forcing a smile on his face. He turned to Mrs. Fabray and tipped his hat before addressing Quinn. "Darling, I'll see you soon. I promise." He leaned forward to kiss her gloved hand.

She smiled demurely and followed her parents to their waiting carriage, leaving Blaine alone with his aunt. He exhaled loudly and offered his arm to Clarissa, turning on the charm along with his thousand-watt smile. "Well, my lady, shall we depart?"

"Look who picked up a few tricks down south," she said a teasing glint in her blue eyes as she looped her arm through his.

"You know me," Blaine said. "Always adapting."

"Why don't you lay off the put-on airs and just be my little Birdie?"

"As you wish, Rissy," he said. He'd called her that since he had first toddled into her arms at three years old when she'd returned from an extended trip abroad to meet her youngest nephew for the first time. His tiny mouth couldn't say her name, and it had stuck ever since.

"So tell me about Miss Lucy," she said. "A snobbish, empty-headed socialite?"

"She likes to be called Quinn," Blaine corrected, "and no. She's actually quite well-read, and whip-smart too."

"She's a proper lady," Clarissa said. "Does she know she's marrying a hopeless cad?"

"I'm sure her father has warned her," he said.

Clarissa laughed, but Blaine scowled, unable to shake the feeling of unease that had settled in his gut the moment Mr. Fabray had approached him on the train.

"What's the trouble, Birdie? You look positively despondent."

"I'm just tired from travel," he said, smiling through the lie. "Let's get home before mother bursts out of her corset from worry."

"Quite right," Clarissa said with a laugh. "She's probably pacing with that horrible blue fan of hers."

"I forgot about that old thing," he said, helping his aunt into the cab of their carriage. He took the seat opposite her and jumped up when he sat on something hard. Reaching behind him for the offending object, he pulled out a small, familiar book, and his breath caught in his throat.

"Oh, I'm sorry about that," Clarissa said. "I was reading that while I was waiting for the train. Those dreadful things are never on time."

Blaine blinked down at the book in his hands, unable to put it down, but equally unable to speak.

"Blaine?"

He shook his head to clear it. "Sorry," he said. "I didn't know you liked Wilde."

Clarissa shrugged. "I'd never read him before, but after that play opened to rave reviews in London on Valentine's Day, it's all the ladies would talk about."

Staring again at the cream-colored volume, he felt his insides flutter as if Kurt were standing before him. He clutched the book tighter and tighter until his fingers ached. He could feel his aunt's eyes on him, but he didn't look up.

"I read in the paper yesterday that Mr. Wilde is on trial in London... for gross indecency or some such nonsense." Clarissa waved a gloved hand as if it were unthinkable to try a man for any crime at all. "It's probably those stuffy English wanting to make a point, but really I don't see the fuss. That book is a little fantastical to be sure, but hardly scandalous or obscene."

Blaine let her words wash over him, but he only half listened as they made their way to his home on 38th Street.

He somehow willed his way through dinner as his mother doted and his father all but ignored him in favor of bragging about Cooper's accomplishments. By the time Blaine finally excused himself, under the pretense of exhaustion from his journey, he was positively aching with grief. Finally alone in his room, Blaine retrieved his copy of "The Picture of Dorian Gray" from a shelf and thumbed through it until he found the passage Kurt had read to him on the beach that day.

His eyes flew across the page as he begged the words to pull him into the memory, but he could no longer hear the gentle lilt of Kurt's voice nor remember the rhythm of his speech. Blaine closed his eyes and tried to imagine the way the sun had caught in Kurt's hair and turned it golden, but the memory was gone — lost under the weight of obligation and propriety.

He slammed the book shut and clutched it to his chest as he wept.

The next morning found Blaine red-eyed and aching as he sat in his Aunt Clarissa's parlor, sipping black coffee and telling her about his trip. He'd also presented her with a gift: one of Mr. de Crano's watercolors. It was a simple still life, a small arrangement of red flowers in a blue pitcher, but something about it had caught his eye — the simplicity of it reminded him of Clarissa the moment he saw it.

"It's wonderful," Clarissa gushed, kissing his cheek. "Thanks, Birdie. I'm going to hang it right here in my front parlor where I can make all the other ladies green with envy."

"Mr. de Crano is famous for his portraits and landscapes, but I really liked his watercolors best. I knew you would too."

"It's lovely, dear," she said, leaning it against a wall. "Now why don't you tell me what had you up all night?"

"Is it that obvious?" Blaine asked wearily.

"You never were very good at hiding things from me," she said, chucking her nephew under the chin. "Want to talk about it?"

"Not particularly." Blaine took a sip of his coffee. "But Grandfather changed the terms of his will... and my trust."

Clarissa let out a long whistle. "You must have done something pretty scandalous, Birdie."

"Sometimes I think he just can't stand to see anyone happy."

"Well, maybe it's not as bad as all that. Why don't you go see that lawyer friend of yours and have him look it over?"

Blaine felt a small spark of hope for the first time in weeks.

The door to Sam Evans' office was fairly nondescript, but Blaine had been to the building many times. Sam was a friend of the family, and only a few years older than Blaine. His father had been the Anderson family's lawyer for decades, and when Sam had finished his degree, Blaine had turned management of his affairs over to his friend. The fact that it took him partially out from under his father's — and grandfather's — thumb was yet another draw, but he also trusted Sam implicitly.

"Blaine!" Sam exclaimed. "When did you traipse back into town?" He pulled Blaine into a brusque hug that caught him off guard. He fell forward into Sam's arms and had to catch himself on the man's broad chest.

As he tried to find his footing, he groped at Sam's torso, causing his face to flame hotly when he felt the rippling of well-defined muscle underneath.

Blaine had grown accustomed to the extraordinary level of physicality inherent in a friendship with Sam, but even so, the shock of two large arms around him was enough to rattle any man — especially when the arms belonged to someone as attractive as Sam Evans.

"Uh, the train got in yesterday," Blaine mumbled into the thick wool of Sam's waistcoat. He tried to pull away, but Sam had him all but trapped. When he finally relaxed into the friendly embrace, Sam released him, and Blaine made a show of straightening his tie and smoothing down his well-pomaded hair. "I was tied up with family business all yesterday, though. Hope it's not too much of a shock... my calling on you without warning."

"Not at all," Sam said. "I've always got time for you, my friend." He gestured for Blaine to sit as he took the chair behind the desk. "So what brings you by? I have a feeling this isn't a social call."

Sam took out a cigarette case, offering one to Blaine. Leaning forward to take it from Sam's hands, Blaine sighed heavily.

"No, it's not a social call," he said. "I have a business matter I need to discuss with you."

"I'm all ears," he said, lighting his cigarette and shaking out the match. Blaine watched the smoke curl around his blond hair, turning his eyes a pinkish hue around the edges. Sam always complained that the smoke irritated his eyes, yet his habit continued. It confounded Blaine.

He took a drag off his own cigarette and picked at the frayed threads on the arm of his chair. "My grandfather changed the terms of his will... and more unfortunately, my trust. I need you to look it over to see if there's a way out of it."

"What did he change?"

"Sam, we're friends first, right?" Blaine paused and took in Sam's befuddled expression. "What I mean is, anything I tell you stays in this room and this room only? You don't repeat it to anyone at any time for any reason."

"Of course, Blaine... you can trust me."

"You have to promise me, Sam. Swear on your mother's life."

Sam's eyebrows furrowed slightly, and his full lips pursed into a luscious pout, that under different circumstances might have distracted Blaine from the task at hand. But he had to tell someone, and Sam was not only a trusted friend, but an expert at legal matters. "Please, Sam," he begged.

"I swear it, Blaine, but you'd better tell me quickly because you're starting to worry me."

Blaine nodded, taking a thoughtful drag of his cigarette. He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees and looked Sam square in the eye. "I'm in love," he stated plainly.

Sam exhaled audibly. "Is that all?" he asked, beaming. "I know about Miss Fabray, you gold goat. Your father came by to see me last week." Sam leaned back in his chair, laughing.

"Sam, it's not Miss Fabray."

That caught Sam's attention. He leaned forward in his chair and placed his palms flat on the desk. "Then why are you marrying Miss Fabray? Does this have something to do with the changes to the trust?"

"Yes," Blaine said without elaboration.

Sam sighed, stubbing out his cigarette and picking up a pen. He dipped it into the well and tapped the tip over the edge to release the extra ink. Holding the pen midair, poised to take notes on whatever needed to be done, he said, "What's her name? Do I need to set her up in an apartment—?"

"No, Sam, you misunderstand," Blaine interrupted. "His name... is Kurt."

The pen felt to the desk with a clatter, a splotch of ink landing on Sam's cuff. Blaine watched the spot expand as it soaked in, the edges reminding him of a spider building its web. He wondered if he could trust Sam with this information after all, but supposed it was already too late to worry about that now.

"It's... uh, a... you're in love with... a man?" Sam managed to get out finally.

Blaine dropped his head in his hands and nodded, unable to look Sam in the eye.

"Well, that changes things," Sam said.

Rising to his feet and still not making eye contact, Blaine mumbled, "I'm sorry I troubled you. I will find myself a new lawyer to handle my affairs." He grabbed his hat from the side table, and bowed in Sam's direction. He was halfway out the door when he heard Sam call out.

"Damnit, Blaine," he said. "At least give me a minute to absorb this."

Blaine wheeled around so fast it made his head spin. "You're not disgusted?" he asked.

Sam looked down at his desk for a moment, picking up his dropped pen and refreshing the ink as he talked. "Well, I can't say it's something I've ever really considered, but I'm no saint. Who am I to judge what's in a man's heart?" He paused and leveled Blaine with a kind gaze. "And I know you're a good man, Blaine. This doesn't change that."

Blaine's vision blurred as tears threatened to spill. Pressing his fingers to his eyes to stem the flow, he sniffed loudly. "Honestly, of the two, I think you're the better man," he said with a laugh.

"Sit down, Anderson," Sam said, pointing to the seat he'd just vacated, "and tell me about the sticky situation you've gotten yourself into now."

Blaine relayed both the nature of his relationship with Kurt and the details of the revised trust, including how he was not allowed to see Kurt again if he wanted to keep his money. To his credit, Sam never once flinched or had any reaction to the things Blaine told him — not even the night his grandfather caught them in the baths.

When he finished his tale, Sam sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. "Well, you've certainly stuck your foot in it this time," he said.

"Never mind the chastisement," Blaine said. "Can you help me?"

"I think so," he replied. "I'll need to see a copy of your grandfather's documents. Do you have the name of his lawyer in St. Augustine?"

"I can get it," Blaine replied.

"Good," Sam said, nodding. "I think you're safe to resume your normal activities... provided that you're careful."

"I don't want to resume anything," Blaine said. "I want to be with Kurt."

"Even so, I think it's best if you don't go looking for this man," Sam said. As Blaine opened his mouth to protest, he added. "At least for now."

Sam began rooting through some of the stacks on his desk, checking the spines of a few legal volumes that were strewn about. "It must be in the library," he said to himself as he continued to search. When he didn't find whatever he was looking for, he turned to Blaine. "I'll be right back. Would you like something to drink while you wait?'

"No, I'm fine," Blaine said. "I see you have the morning paper; I can keep myself busy."

"It should only be a minute or two. I want to check something."

"Of course," Blaine said, and he unfolded the paper. There was nothing much of note in that day's edition — a few robberies, a deadly fire that gutted a fireworks factory in New Jersey, and a piece on the new library — but then he got to the wedding announcements.

Mrs. Carole Hudson, widow of Mr. Christopher Hudson and formerly of Stratford, Conn., wed Mr. Burton W. Hummel of 206 E. 21st. The ceremony was performed at the Calvary Episcopal Church by Rev. Jonathan Thomas.

The bride wore a stunning silk gown designed by Mr. Kurt Hummel, the groom's son, who was also the best man. Miss Rachel Berry was the maid of honor. She wore pale green silk. A reception followed the ceremony at the home of Mrs. Hiram Berry on E 18th.

His breath caught in his throat at just the sight of Kurt's name in print. It took a few moments for it to register that Mr. Hummel had married the woman he had been courting in St. Augustine.

Without thinking, Blaine reached across the desk and snatched up the pen that Sam had been using. On a blank sheet of paper he jotted down the Hummels' address and shoved the paper into his pocket.

He had Kurt's address, and he hadn't even been home a day. At this rate, he'd be penniless in less than a month.

Standing in the shadows across the street from the Hummel residence, Blaine watched the comings and goings of Burt and Carole Hummel, but there was no sight of Kurt. He spent most of his afternoons watching the front door of number 206, hoping to catch a glimpse of Kurt, but it was nearly a full week before he appeared.

Kurt was wearing a butter-colored overcoat that hung past his knees, and he carried a silver-tipped walking stick that he swung dramatically with each step. He looked lighter than the last time Blaine had seen him; there was a spring in his step he hadn't expected.

Flicking his cigarette into the street, Blaine watched as Kurt approached the steps to his father's home. His heart lurched in an unexpected way when Kurt turned his head and Blaine caught sight of his chiseled jawline. It looked as if his graceful neck had grown even longer in the few weeks since he'd left Blaine retching up whiskey in the Ponce's bathroom. Even at a distance Blaine could pick out the details of Kurt's face that he hadn't realized he'd forgotten in such a short period of time: the tilt of his nose, his sharp cheekbones, the contrast of his pale skin against the deep chestnut of his hair.

Fighting an ill-advised urge to run across the street, Blaine took two steps backward, ducking behind a carriage and pressing a palm to his chest in an attempt to calm his rapid heartbeat and ragged breathing.

When he crouched down to peer out between the spokes of the carriage wheel, Kurt was gone, and the awkward position he took to do so caught the ire of a raven-haired woman in slate blue as she climbed into the cab. Righting his posture, Blaine tipped his hat to her and made his way further down the sidewalk to wait for Kurt to reemerge.

Blaine's neck was stiff and his feet ached by the time Kurt exited number 206, but he jumped to his feet and quickly ducked into a doorway to conceal his features as if he had only just arrived. Kurt took no mind of anything on the street, humming quietly to himself as he headed toward 3rd Avenue. Blaine waited until Kurt was well ahead of him before following, and he stayed at least half a block away as they made their way southwest down the street. Keeping an eye on that bright overcoat, he managed to track Kurt for at least ten blocks before he realized they were headed toward the Bowery. Blaine's heart thudded in his chest at the thought of Kurt frequenting the kind of establishments found there.

The guilt he felt at spying on his former lover was overshadowed by his need to know what had become of him. When Kurt stopped in front of a nondescript brick façade, Blaine craned his neck to see the full span of the building. It was three stories tall and there were several windows with effeminate-looking boys hanging out and calling into the street. Blaine had seen the fairies, of course, but chose to spend his time in bath houses rather than on the Bowery where the trade was more conspicuous.

He watched Kurt enter the building, but did not venture further. It was growing late, and he'd be expected home soon. He was having dinner with the Fabrays and still had to change clothes. Reluctantly, he headed back up 3rd Avenue.

But Blaine returned to Columbia Hall on several occasions, once following Kurt to a nearby shop only to find out that Kurt was the proprietor and lived upstairs. He watched as men of all walks of life called on his place of business and exited looking more dapper than when they arrived. He didn't know what to make of it all, so he kept watching.

And then one day he saw Kurt in the company of a familiar young man.

The blond-haired boy wore clothes in the fashion that Kurt had taken to wearing, but the loose curls of his hair were what really gave them both away. Kurt had kept his own hair short, but otherwise the two were practically a matched set in their bright colors and conspicuous flowers pinned to their breasts.

Blaine saw them together several times, always laughing and smiling in such a way that made Blaine want to punch Kurt's companion in the face. He was living the life Blaine could have had if he'd been brave enough, and he had Kurt. That hurt the most: Kurt had moved on.

One afternoon in mid May, Blaine watched as Kurt reentered his shop and his companion headed up the street, but when he reached the corner, he paused and took in Blaine's presence.

"You there," he called out. "We haven't done anything illegal, and I'd appreciate it if you'd mind your own business."

"I'm not watching you," Blaine lied. He searched his brain for some reason he'd be in that spot, but nothing came to mind. Fumbling in his pocket for his cigarette case, he tried to ignore the young man's presence.

But he took a few steps in Blaine's direction, swinging his cane boldly. "I've seen you standing in that spot, every day for the last six days. You're not fooling anyone." He lips quirked into a droll smile as he approached. "I know you," he said. "You're that gentleman I saw with Kurt in Atlanta."

"I don't know what you mean," Blaine said, ducking his head in a futile attempt to conceal his face while lighting his cigarette.

"No, you're him. I remember you," the man said pointing at him. "What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to see Kurt," Blaine said, the words tumbling from his mouth along with a puff of smoke and falling before him like so many loose marbles.

"Well, at least you're direct," he said holding out his hand in greeting. "I'm Chandler Kiehl."

Blaine shook his hand. "Blaine Anderson."

"Kurt is doing well, you know," Chandler said.

"I always knew he would," Blaine replied, squinting as the sun broke free from a cloud and obscured his vision. Something in him crumbled when the warmth caressed his face, as if it had broken the dam he'd built around his heart to stem the tide of heartbreak. "I really should be going," he choked out.

"Want me to tell Kurt you stopped by?" Chandler asked, a playful smirk making Blaine's stomach turn.

"I think it might be better for us both if you didn't," Blaine said. "Good day to you."

He tipped his hat and set off down the street, desperate to put distance between himself and Kurt's new lover, but before he could get more than a dozen steps away, he heard Chandler's voice.

"Maybe it's better for him if you just move on with your life," he said.

Blaine turned and nodded once, and set off quicker than before, biting back stinging tears as he broke into a run.

By the end of May, Blaine had mostly returned to his own dreary routine. His days were spent listening to his mother, Mrs. Fabray, and Quinn planning the wedding, chattering about meaningless things like guest lists and the custom gown Quinn would wear. In the evenings, he frequented the bathhouse to meet up with men whom he had no desire to get to know, but it was just another way to dull his senses to the only memory of Kurt that remained: his pained face as they parted. The sharp stab of heartbreak had subsided to a dull ache in Blaine's chest that he numbed with cheap liquor and the company of too many men.

Then one night in June, after Blaine had glutted himself on the company of a man who called himself Harry, but whom Blaine suspected had made his name up for the occasion, he joined Edgar and his latest companion in one of the larger pools at Everard's. Harry, much to Blaine's chagrin, began prattling on about everything from fashion to politics. Blaine tried to tune him out.

"Did you hear about Oscar Wilde?" Harry asked as he lit a cigarette and passed it to Blaine. The name had gotten Blaine's attention, though, and he nearly dropped the cigarette in the water.

"The playwright?" Edgar's friend asked, his hand absently stroking Edgar's arm as if nothing out of the ordinary had been said.

"Yep. Convicted of sodomy. Two years hard labor."

"Thank God we don't live in England," Edgar said.

"Indeed," Harry replied. "According to the papers, he was so in love he said he'd rather go to prison than give up his lover. Can you imagine?"

Blaine could suddenly hear nothing but the rush of his own blood in his ears. Loving someone so much that you'd rather die or go to prison? There was only one person he could think of. Only one person he needed to see.

"You feeling alright, Blaine?" Edgar asked.

But Blaine was out of the water and wrapping a towel around his waist before Edgar could finish his sentence. His need to find Kurt was unbearable. If Oscar Wilde could go to jail for the man he loved, surely Blaine could give up a silly trust fund. Suddenly the money mattered little, his only concern to find Kurt and tell him how he felt.

Sliding on the wet tiles, he gripped the towel tightly about his waist as he stumbled toward the changing rooms.

He was dressed and on the street faster than he could have imagined, and by the time he reached Kurt's building, Blaine had devised a plan. Thankfully he could see the lamplight burning in the window of the apartment over Kurt's small shop. Grateful he was still awake, Blaine climbed the stairs two at a time and rapped sharply on Kurt's door. He heard a clamor from within and a muffled curse before Kurt flung the door open, wrapped in a dressing gown that covered his wrinkled pajamas.

"Blaine!"

"I know I said no contact, but I had to see you."

"Did anyone see you come up?"

"Kurt, it's after midnight. No one is out there."

"Right....right. Come in." Kurt stepped aside and gestured for Blaine to enter. The light from Kurt's oil lamp flickered against the wall and cast harsh shadows around the room. It felt ominous and wrong. Blaine wanted to pull Kurt into his arms and never let go. He collapsed into one of Kurt's wingback chairs under the weight of his own fear. What if Kurt rejected him?

"Blaine, what's wrong?" Kurt pleaded, his hands twitching at his sides like he wanted to reach out and comfort him. It nearly broke Blaine's heart all over again.

"I would go to prison for you," Blaine said. "Or face the gallows. I love you that much."

Kurt sank down in the chair across from Blaine. "I know," he said simply. "So would I. I've been thinking about it all day."

"You heard about Oscar Wilde, then?"

"It was in the paper."

"It made me think of us, and what I would do if we had gotten caught last winter, and I knew. I just knew." Blaine paused and took a deep breath, leaning forward in his seat and itching to pull Kurt into his arms. "You are the love of my life, Kurt. No matter who we marry. I'll always love you, and I don't want to give you up."

Kurt shook his head almost violently, as if he were trying to clear Blaine from his memory. He looked sad and broken and utterly determined to hold his ground.

"Blaine, we talked about this. It's too dangerous."

"I don't care," Blaine said simply. "I need you; I can't live without you. I've tried."

Kurt's flawless posture finally crumbled as he sagged back into the soft billowing fabric of the chair and let his body be supported by an external force, as if that were all he could manage.

"I was just starting to forget how your lips taste," Kurt murmured.

When Blaine looked up, he couldn't focus on Kurt because his vision had blurred from the tears pooling in his eyes. Kurt had forgotten him. Maybe he had misjudged the depth of Kurt's love. But then Kurt spoke, his voice barely a whisper, "I hated that I forgot."

Blaine sat up and reached for Kurt, only managing to grasp his leg just above the knee. "Would you like a reminder?"

He saw, rather than heard, Kurt's breath catch in his throat as tears threatened to spill. "Blaine..." he began.

"We just have to be careful," he said as he peppered Kurt's face with soft kisses.

"We tried that," Kurt said, almost whimpering with effort. His eyes remained closed as he talked. "We'll get caught, and then they'll really take you from me."

"But I'd rather that than not have you at all,' Blaine said. "This is what I'm trying to tell you."

"How will we explain it? We don't even have the same friends."

"I have an idea," Blaine said.

Kurt pulled back from Blaine and looked at him questioningly. His eyes raked Blaine's face searching for answers. He looked so devastatingly handsome, Blaine couldn't help but smile.

"Quinn's wedding gown," he said. "She wants a custom design. And I'm going to recommend this wonderful tailor I know."

Kurt's eyes went wide at Blaine's words. Blaine cupped Kurt's face in his hands.

"This way, we both get something we want, my love. You'll get the chance to design for high society and I'll get you. No one will question you coming and going from my house while you're working on the dress, and I'll find lots of excuses to come here. And then later, I'll talk Quinn's father into investing in your business. He'll insist I manage it. He won't want anything to do with women's fashions. And then, my darling, we'll finally get to be together."

"It all sounds too good to be true," Kurt said, rising to his feet and pacing around his small living room. "How can you be sure this will work?"

"Because we don't have any other options," Blaine said. "And I'm a man who gets what he wants. Haven't you figured that out by now?"

Blaine strode across the room to bring himself face to face with Kurt.

"What about what I want?"

"Kurt, I'll give you anything. Just say the word, my love." Blaine gripped at Kurt's shoulders and implored him with his eyes. "Just tell me what you want."

Kurt's blue eyes sparkled as he smiled and pressed his lips to Blaine's. "I just want you," he said. "Forever and always."