Chapter 19

After the wedding, Kurt lost himself in his work. Or maybe he just felt lost; the difference hardly mattered because Blaine would return soon enough. His work kept him busy night and noon and left him with a feeling that he was no longer marking time. He was his own man, and had found his place in the world.

Just before Blaine was set to return, Kurt unexpectedly received a letter from Quinn. It was perfunctory; barely a letter at all, containing just one sentence, followed by the letter Q: I must see you as soon as I am back in New York.

Baffled by the cryptic message, Kurt set it aside and practically forgot about it until he received word from Blaine that he was back in the city. His note said that Quinn was ill and he'd stop by as soon as he was able, but Kurt didn't see him for another two weeks. Quinn, however, came by unexpectedly one afternoon looking distressed and pale but perfectly stylish in a dress that looked nothing like what he had been seeing in New York.

Turned sideways, the ample bustle made her waist seem cinched in even tighter, or perhaps it was her stays making it look like she had been painted into her dress. The boning in the bodice must have been new, forcing her to stand straight as a pin as she stood in the doorway to his small apartment, smiling at him as if she had a secret she was dying to tell.

"Quinn, what a lovely surprise," Kurt said, hoping his greeting wasn't too presumptuous. He couldn't bear the thought of calling her Mrs. Anderson.

"This isn't a social call," Quinn stated, walking past him and into his apartment. "I'm here about your relationship with my husband."

Her words ricocheted through Kurt's chest like a bullet through his heart, the ice in her voice shattering against his ribs as he gasped for air. "W-what?"

"Don't play coy," she said, taking a seat in the chair Kurt usually reserved for Blaine. She looked so much smaller sitting down, but her eyes were piercing, holding Kurt captive with their fire. "I know all about you and Blaine."

"Quinn, I can explain."

She held up a hand, silencing him. Kurt took the seat opposite her, perching on the edge like an animal about to flee, his heart thumping mercilessly in his chest.

"What you and my husband do in private is your business," she said. Kurt felt his legs begin to shake, the tremors making his muscles feel like putty. He dabbed at the sweat beading up on his forehead as Quinn continued, "However, I thought you would like to know that you're not the only man with whom he's been... intimate."

Kurt exhaled slowly. "I'm aware of his former lifestyle, yes."

Quinn's back stiffened. Perhaps she was not aware of Blaine's previous habits, or maybe she simply did not want to be reminded of it.

"Actually," she said. "I was referring to an incident in Paris." She reached into her tiny beaded bag, and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. Passing it to Kurt, she waited for him to read it. When he looked up at her after reading the brief sentences and the unfamiliar address, he found a smug smile that only added to his confusion.

"I don't understand," he said.

"I found that in our hotel room one afternoon. It seems he was out philandering about Paris behind both our backs."

"Blaine would never–"

"That's what I thought once too," Quinn reasoned, "and then I found out about you."

Kurt's mouth fell open. He sat in stunned silence for a moment and as her words wormed their way into his mind, he shook his head to clear it of his traitorous thoughts. "I refuse to believe it," he said. "He loves me, and he wouldn't do that... to either of us."

"Yes, he loves you... and yet he rushes to the arms of another man the moment you are too far away to pleasure him. What does that say about love?"

"That love isn't perfect," Kurt said. "But I trust Blaine."

"And that shall be your downfall, Mr. Hummel." Quinn rose to standing, Kurt stumbling to follow. "Why does no one keep their promises?!" she shouted. "No one... not one person can just do what is expected of them and shut their stupid mouths!" She curled in on herself, clutching her middle with one hand and covering her face with the other. Her body began to shake with loud, throaty sobs. "Everything is a mess, and I'm in love with a man who..." She choked off her words with a sob.

Kurt reached into his pocket for his handkerchief and stepped closer to her, laying his hand on her shoulder as he offered her the cloth. "I know you love him," Kurt said, assuming her tears were the result of the heartbreak he had caused. "And I'm sorry."

She jerked her head up, watery green eyes meeting Kurt's gaze. "I barely know him," she spat. "I am fond of him, but I do not love him."

"I'm afraid I don't understand," Kurt said. "You just said–"

"Nevermind what I said," Quinn interrupted, drying her eyes hastily with Kurt's handkerchief. "I obviously let my emotions get the better of me. Forgive my lack of decorum."

She handed the handkerchief back to Kurt and smoothed her hands down the front of her dress. "The other reason I am here," she said, "is I'd like you to fit me for a new dress. It seems the French food was too much for me, and I've grown thicker around the middle. You'll have to take new measurements."

Still baffled by her outburst, Kurt could do nothing but nod and follow her down into his shop. By the time she left an hour later, his body felt numb, and his heart was aching.

As Blaine's father had predicted, Quinn started feeling better after a couple of weeks. Her color gradually returned, and she no longer complained of nausea. Mr. Fabray had kept Blaine quite busy showing him the ropes of the family's textiles business, so on his first free day, he could think of nothing but seeing Kurt.

The bell on Kurt's door jangled loudly as Blaine bounded through the door. He could hardly contain the smile on his face as his eyes searched the tiny shop for Kurt's handsome face. "Kurt!" he called, finding no patrons inside.

It was quiet for a terrifying moment, and then Kurt stepped out from the back room, looking broader and taller than when Blaine had left, his chestnut hair begging for Blaine's fingers to explore it, his lips daring to be kissed. Blaine tried to take in all of him at once, but could only trail his eyes up and down his lover's body.

"My God, I've missed you," he said, striding confidently toward Kurt. He reached out for him, expecting Kurt to fall immediately into his arms.

Instead, Kurt stepped back.

"Quinn came by yesterday," he said, looking subdued and distant. "She wanted to talk about the two of us."

Relief washed over him. "I know," Blaine said, smiling. "I couldn't risk telling you in a letter in case it got intercepted, but she found out about us right before the wedding, and we worked it all out on our honeymoon. She's going to let us be. I have so much to tell you!"

"Who's Sebastian?" Kurt asked, his voice low and cautious.

Blaine froze. "How do you know about that?"

"Quinn found this," Kurt said, shoving the crumpled note at him.

Blaine's eyes darted across the page, widening as he read the words. "Kurt, I never met him. You have to believe me."

For an agonizing moment, Blaine was certain everything was falling apart. He watched emotions flit across Kurt's features as if his heart were at war with his mind. The note in Blaine's hand felt like a hot ember against his palm, and he released it, letting it fall to the floor. He clenched his fist to keep from reaching out and held his breath.

Kurt slumped against the counter, as if he'd been keeping it all together but had just decided to let go of his façade. "I didn't want it to be true, but Quinn was so sure." His eyes were watery and growing red around the edges. It looked as if he'd already been crying that morning.

Blaine exhaled, hoping he was reading Kurt's expression correctly. "Darling, please," he begged, holding out his arms.

Kurt surged forward, sagging into Blaine's embrace. "Tell me you love me," he said. "I need to hear it."

"I love you, Kurt," Blaine said, tilting Kurt's face toward his with a finger under his chin. "And only you." He leaned forward and kissed Kurt softly, making a vow with his lips that words could not convey. "Sebastian was simply a temptation; one that I faced and conquered. Pleasures of the flesh hold no meaning without you."

Leaning his forehead on Blaine's, Kurt whispered, "I was so lonely here without you. I must have read your letters a dozen times each." He pulled back, a high flush on his cheeks. "Especially the first one."

Blaine chuckled. "I was in a right state when I wrote that," he said. "Drunk on Scotch and half aroused and so, so very lonely without you, my love."

Kurt's smile could have rivaled the sun with its brightness, and it warmed Blaine's heart just as much. He wanted to spend the rest of his life memorizing every line around Kurt's eyes when he smiled like that; the dimples on his cheeks, the thin line of his lips as he tried to fight his joy — all of it held Blaine under Kurt's spell.

"I'll never doubt you again," Kurt said.

"Oh, I'm sure you will," Blaine said, "but as long as you always give me a chance to explain."

"If you promise to stop being so damned charming that men practically throw themselves at you, I'll sign an oath in blood."

"I'm afraid being charming is just part of the package," Blaine teased.

"And modest, too."

Blaine laced his fingers through Kurt's hair, his palms cupping Kurt's chiseled jaw as he kissed him. "God, I've missed you," he said when he pulled away with a smack of their lips.

"So tell me about this arrangement you made with Quinn," Kurt said, releasing himself from Blaine's embrace. "I must tell you, when she said she didn't care what you and I did in private, I nearly fell down dead."

"I had a similar response," Blaine replied. "But I think she simply wants the freedom to live a life free from her father's demands, and she knows I won't expect her to do more than she's willing."

"That's convenient, I suppose."

"Not to mention, her reputation would be harmed as much as mine now that we're married. She's exceptionally smart, and I know she'll find a way to work this to her advantage. If she hadn't been so sick on our honeymoon, I think she would have had it all worked out before we left Paris."

"She looked fine yesterday," Kurt said.

"Well, the nausea has subsided finally."

"Any idea what was wrong?"

Blaine shrugged. "My father said I shouldn't worry. That it was a simple illness, and she'd be back on her feet in no time."

"She must have been eating like a horse in Paris," Kurt said.

"Actually, she barely ate a thing once the sickness took her. Why did you say that?"

"Well, she grew two inches since her last fitting with me," Kurt said. "I assumed it was all that rich food, and she said as m—" Kurt gasped suddenly, his hand falling with a thud against the counter.

"Are you feeling all right?"

Kurt looked at him with wide, disbelieving eyes. "Blaine, I think Quinn might be pregnant."

"That's impossible," Blaine said with a laugh, knowing they hadn't even consummated their marriage yet.

"Are you sure?"

"Of course, I'm sure," Blaine said. "You think I don't know if my own wife is pregnant?"

"We all have our secrets," Kurt said.

"No, that's simply preposterous. What you're insinuating... there's no way Quinn would– would she?"

Blaine couldn't bring himself to confront Quinn right away. What if Kurt was wrong? Instead, he watched her, biding his time.

He noticed little things at first: the way she caressed her belly when she thought no one was looking; the longing looks she gave to mothers with small children when they passed on the street. And then one night after dinner, when he noticed her shifting uncomfortably as she tugged at her too-tight dress, he said, "I think it's time we broached the topic of family."

For a scant second, Quinn's eyes went wide before she covered it with tittering laughter. "Darling, we've only been married a few months." Her eyes darted to the maid who was clearing the serving dishes. "And this is hardly appropriate conversation for the dinner table."

"Well, then let's go into the parlor, but I'd like to finish this discussion."

"Very well," Quinn said, rising to her feet. He could see she was straining to keep a pained look off her face, and he was more certain than ever that Kurt had guessed correctly.

When they were out of earshot of the servants who were still bustling about the kitchen, he whispered, "I know about the baby."

Quinn swayed on her feet, Blaine catching her just in time before she swooned right into the fireplace. Her hands were shaking as she clung to his arms for support. Easing her into the nearest chair, Blaine leaned down to catch her gaze. "Just tell me," he said.

She took a deep breath, steeling herself in a way that made Blaine proud. She wasn't going to back down, and he loved her for that.

"It happened the night before the wedding," she said. "I was so upset when I found out about Kurt. I thought you'd been laughing behind my back and making me a fool. I couldn't bear it." She reached up to wipe at a stray tear that rolled down her cheek. "I went to the factory to hide in the bolts of fabric, like I used to do when I was a little girl. The bright colors were always stacked so high, I couldn't see over them, and I could block out the world.

"I was sitting there on the floor, crying, when he found me."

"Who?" Blaine took her hand in his, squeezing softly in encouragement.

"Noah," she said. "Noah Puckeman. He's worked for my father since I was a little girl, and he used to make yarn dolls for me. I had such the schoolgirl's crush on him." She laughed, the sound an eerie contrast to her tears. "When he found me sitting there on the floor, he told me it should be a crime for a beautiful girl to cry." She sniffled. "I was so heartbroken, Blaine. I thought I loved you, but you were with Kurt. And Noah was so sweet. He even came back when his shift ended to check on me, and we talked for hours. When it got late, he offered to walk me home." She paused, a soft smile curling her upper lip as she practically whispered her next words. "He was so gentle and caring... I asked him to take me home with him instead."

"Quinn, you didn't."

She nodded. "I did, and I'm so ashamed. Not because of Noah. I wanted to... and I thought... I think I love him. But because I ruined things for us."

"You didn't ruin anything," Blaine said. But then he remembered the house call his father had made. "Does my father know?"

"Only that I'm pregnant. He assumed it was yours, and I wasn't about to correct that assumption," Quinn said with a bitter laugh. "But I wouldn't let him tell you. I needed more time. So I told him I wanted to wait until I was further along."

"When were you planning on telling me?"

"I hadn't thought that far," she said, sagging against the back of her chair. "I only figured it out when we were in Paris, and then I thought you were running around on Kurt too."

Blaine felt anger bubble up in his chest. "Confound it, Quinn! All this time, I was feeling guilty about Kurt, and you had already been with another man."

"I only did it because I was devastated that my fiancé was in love with someone else!"

"You're having his child, Quinn!"

Her eyes darted around the room, landing anywhere but Blaine's face. "I know," she sobbed as she dropped her head in her hands. "But there's nothing to be done about it now."

Blaine collapsed in his chair, unable to offer up an argument. "I suppose you're right," he said.

Quinn's head shot up, her green eyes wet with tears. "You're not angry?"

"How could I be?" he asked, heaving a weary sigh.

Quinn smiled, her relief obvious in the way she slumped in her chair. "Well, what shall we do about this?"

"I suppose we'll just have to keep each other's secrets now," he said.

A letter from Felix in late September proved a pleasant diversion amid the confusion caused by Blaine's return and Quinn's unexpected pregnancy. He had sailed to Paris to visit an old friend and enclosed a sketch of the Eiffel Tower that made Kurt homesick for Felix's St. Augustine studio.

My Dear Friend Kurt,

There is much too much scenery to draw and paint here. My hands ache from holding the paintbrush, and I fear I shall never return to my humble studio and comfortable existence as a working artist.

If you should ever want to travel to Paris — and you must!— please call on my friend Jean-Philippe. He has assured me he would give you a place to stay and a shop to work in. Although, I do caution you that you will grow fat and accustomed to having wine with every meal. Jean-Philippe has let out my trousers once already.

Last time you write me, you said you were starting a business of your own. How is it faring? Have you taken over the city yet? If not, you will soon. You have magic, my friend. It flows through your veins like life's blood.

Write soon. I am an old man and don't like to wait to hear from my dear friends.

Your humble painting master,
Felix de Crano

The flourish after the painter's signature was ostentatious to say the least, but it made Kurt smile. He missed his friend's eccentricities, and moreover, his bright laughter and warm smile. As much as he loved the life he had built for himself in New York, Kurt would forever think on his time in St. Augustine fondly, and Felix was a large part of that.

Kurt was jostled from his wistful memories by the jingle of the bell over the shop door.

"Kurt," Blaine's voice called out from downstairs. "Are you here?"

Stashing the letter between the pages of the nearest book, Kurt went to the door to greet Blaine. Instead, he was greeted by a hollow shell of the man, a pale, terrified creature who looked like he hadn't slept in days.

"What's wrong?" Kurt asked, the hairs on the back of his neck feeling like pinpricks against his own skin.

"My grandfather heard about the baby and he's coming for a visit." Blaine's tone was flat, his eyes lifeless, as he spoke.

Kurt felt his heart sink, bottoming out somewhere in the vicinity of his stomach, forcing the bile to threaten the back of his throat. "D-did he say that's the reason?"

"He did, but I have a feeling that's not why he's taking the train up immediately." Blaine crossed the room and collapsed into a chair. "What if he disinherits me? What will become of Quinn? The baby?" He dropped his head in his hands, his body curled in on itself as he hunched over his own lap.

Kurt crossed the room and knelt at his feet, placing his hands on Blaine's knees and trying to catch his gaze. "Darling, don't despair. I'm sure it's not as bad as all that."

"I can't leave her destitute, Kurt. I just can't." Blaine's eyes were watery and desperate when he met Kurt's gaze.

"And you won't," Kurt said, placing his hand over Blaine's where it had come to rest in his lap. "You have your job at Mr. Fabray's factory and he won't leave his daughter and grandchild penniless."

"If he finds out I've been seeing you, though..." Blaine trailed off and ran the back of his hand across his eyes. "It was only by divine providence that we avoided him finding out you made Quinn's dress. If Mary hadn't gotten pregnant, they'd have been at the wedding as planned."

"He won't find out," Kurt said. "Why would my name even come up? And Quinn won't spill the beans."

Blaine sniffed. "You're right," he said. "I know you're right. I just can't help but be terrified by the very notion that he might somehow find out."

"Do you really think his trip has anything to do with us?"

Sighing, Blaine leaned back in the chair and let his head fall against the back of it. "I haven't a clue," he said.

Kurt sat back on his heels and gazed up at Blaine, his forehead creased with worry as he rubbed at his eyes. "Well, I suppose we should lie low for a while?"

The question was rhetorical, but Blaine nodded his confirmation. "What shall I do without you while that infuriating old man is here?"

"You'll manage," Kurt said. "Besides, you have to take care of your family. You said it yourself: You can't leave Quinn destitute."

Blaine tilted his head down and attempted a small, pained-looking smile. "It's not even my baby," he said with a bitter laugh.

Kurt stood up, his shadow falling across Blaine's body as he obscured the light from his gas lamp. He reached down to caress Blaine's cheek. "It is your baby. The rest of the world will not know the difference."

Leaning into Kurt's touch, Blaine closed his eyes and whispered, "The rest of the world knows nothing."

Kurt smiled as he turned sideways and eased himself into Blaine's lap. He pressed a ghost of a kiss to Blaine's temple and inhaled deeply, allowing the comforting scent of Blaine — a mixture of tobacco and pomade that would never leave him — to seep into his memory anew. He needed to make this night last as long as it could.

"Could you stay with me tonight?" Kurt asked. "Will Quinn be cross?"

Blaine's eyes opened to reveal irises nearly obscured by black. "She's probably in bed already," he whispered. "And we have an agreement."

"Then she shan't miss you, and I won't have to. At least not for tonight."

Blaine's mother demanded that he meet his grandfather at the train station, leaving no room for argument. Therefore, Blaine was standing begrudgingly on the platform trying to pick out his grandfather's thick white mustache from an abundance of thick white mustaches.

"My grandson will handle my trunk."

Blaine spun around to find his grandfather barking orders at a harried looking porter. Blaine tried to give the man a genial smile, but he received only a questioning brow that spurred him to action.

"Yes, right..." Blaine stammered. "The carriage is just over here." He pointed as he began to walk, the porter struggling to keep up as his grandfather sniffed his disdain — whether at Blaine or the porter was unclear.

After the trunk was loaded, Dr. Anderson climbed in the cab without a second glance for the now sweaty porter. Realizing it was down to him to do the proper thing, he dug a few coins out of his pocket and thanked the man for his service. He probably tipped more than necessary, but he felt the need to make up for his grandfather's rudeness, which, truth be told, was largely for Blaine's benefit anyway.

A sharp rapping on the door of the carriage caused Blaine to jump.

"Hurry up, boy," his grandfather scolded. "It's boiling hot in this damned carriage."

Blaine climbed inside and took the seat opposite his grandfather, his gaze falling out the window to avoid the man's icy cold stare. He could feel the blue eyes piercing his skin, their harsh focus zeroed in on Blaine like a spotlight, but he refused to look up from the pavement gliding by as they made their way to Blaine's parents' house. Not a word was spoken, and it both calmed and unnerved Blaine in equal measures. He was grateful not to be forced to speak, but he was also left on tenterhooks regarding his grandfather's visit.

Neither of them spoke until they pulled up in front of the Andersons' residence.

"Benjamin will bring your trunk in," Blaine said, climbing down from the cab. "I'll see you at dinner."

"You're not coming in?" his grandfather asked, and Blaine reveled in the obvious discomfort the man felt at being thwarted in his plans.

"I need to go fetch Quinn," he replied with a genuine smile. "She's at home resting, but we'll be back in time for dinner." He tipped his hat to his grandfather and headed up the street without waiting for a response. He'd won the battle, if not the war.

At dinner, his grandfather fired the first shot.

"Why is your lawyer looking into my estate?"

They had only just started the second course, and Blaine's fork clattered to the plate dramatically. "I'm sorry," he said, trying desperately to recover some sense of decorum as he picked up his fork. "I'm not sure I know what you mean."

"Don't play coy with me, young man. He contacted John to ask about my will and what you're set to receive. I doubt he did that of his own accord."

"When I found out Quinn was going to have a baby, I wanted to make sure she was taken care of if anything should happen to me. So I asked Sam to make sure there wasn't a codicil in the will that would keep her from inheriting." He glanced over to his wife. "I can't leave her penniless if I should ever meet an untimely death."

His grandfather's snort drew his attention back to the head of the table. "Did you have something to say, Grandfather?" Blaine narrowed his eyes. "Is there something wrong with me wanting to ensure that my wife and child are taken care of?"

"Of course not, darling," his mother said, patting his arm. "I'm sure he's only looking out for your best interests." She turned to her father-in-law. "Right, Andrew?"

Without taking his eyes off Blaine, Dr. Anderson said, "Of course, Helen. He's my grandson. He knows I only want what's best for him."

"Your expectations have always been quite clear," Blaine said, stabbing ferociously at his steak.

He barely spoke for the remainder of the meal, angry that his grandfather always had a way of reducing him to feeling like a small child. Quinn kept quiet as well, only commenting when they were walking home.

"Did you really talk to Sam about me?" she asked, looking down and stroking her barely visible belly. "Us?" she added with a smile.

Kicking at the pavement like a petulant child, Blaine was caught off guard by her question. "What?" he asked, only remembering a few scant words.

"Did you ask Sam to look into your grandfather's will?"

"Oh," Blaine said. "Uh... yes." It wasn't a complete lie; he had asked Sam to look into it. But the idea that he'd been concerned for Quinn had only just occurred to him that night at dinner.

Quinn placed a hand on his arm to stop him. Blaine turned his head to face her and found her misty-eyed and smiling.

"Thank you," she said.

Blaine waved her off. "You don't need to thank me."

"I know this has been tough on you," she said, stroking her belly once more. "I just want you to know that I appreciate it. You're going to be a great father."

Something in Blaine swelled at that moment— a warmth he hadn't felt before. He was going to be a father. Even knowing that the baby wasn't truly his didn't make a difference, because it would be his in name, and with any luck, the baby would have Quinn's peachy complexion and dainty nose. It would not be hard to love a baby that would call him Daddy. Or Pop. Definitely not father.

"I'm going to be a father," he said.

"Yes, you are," Quinn said with a smile.

"You're going to be a mother, and I'm going to be a father!"

Quinn giggled. "That's usually how it works, dear."

"Wow," Blaine said, sounding a little breathless. He was overwhelmed with the urge to take care of both Quinn and the baby, which he was suddenly and quite inexplicably certain was a little girl. "We should call her Ruby."

Quinn looked confused. "What if it's a boy?"

"It won't be."

"Blaine..."

"Or Madeline. Definitely not Adelaide."

"You're positively giddy," Quinn said. "But I think we have time to come up with a name. Not to mention, it could be a boy."

Waving a dismissive hand in her direction, Blaine kept on thinking aloud. "I really should go see Sam tomorrow and let him know what happened; make sure everything is settled."

Still looking confused, Quinn said, "If you think that's best. But do send him my regards. I think it's lovely that he'd help us out like this."

"Of course," Blaine said, but he was already mentally preparing what he wanted to say to Sam.

Without Blaine to cling to, Kurt again immersed himself in work, taking on new clients without regard for sleeping at night. He worked until his fingers were raw and aching, and then he worked some more, and still only two weeks had passed.

He was hunched over a heavy silk taffeta gown with more beading than he had ever attempted before, cursing the tiny stitches, when Chandler burst through the door, all color and life and whistling a bawdy tune.

"Good afternoon, Kurt," he sang.

"Hello, Chandler," Kurt replied, without looking up.

A shadow fell over him, blocking his light. He glared up at Chandler. "Do you mind?"

"Sorry," he said, stepping back and leaning on the counter. "You work too hard."

"I need to make a living, Chandler. We can't all be gentlemen's playthings."

"You wound me," Chandler said, but Kurt could tell he wasn't as offended as he wanted Kurt to believe. "And you could if you wanted to."

"Could what?"

"Be a gentleman's plaything."

Kurt glared up at him over the edge of his spectacles. "Don't be ridiculous."

"Oh come on, Kurt. You are a handsome, virile young man. The fellas I run with would take one look at you and empty their purses in your lap without giving it a second thought."

Kurt considered it. Of course, he knew he'd grown into his looks over the years, the roundness in his face giving way to a more masculine jawline, and he'd grown several inches in just the last three years. But he couldn't quite shake the cruel words that had been lobbed at him as a schoolboy. "My arms are like twigs, and my nose is too big for my face," he said, returning his attention to his work.

"Your arms are perfectly fine," Chandler said. "Strong even. And your nose is prominent but it's really quite distinguished."

Kurt glanced at himself in the mirror, trying to see what Chandler saw. Blaine did seem to pay extra attention to his nose. He turned sideways to catch as much as he could of his own profile. Perhaps it wasn't so bad.

Chandler giggled behind him.

"Oh, stop," Kurt said, and went back to sewing.

"All I'm saying is that you could make more money as a rent boy," Chandler said. "You just let me know if you ever change your mind."

Exasperated, Kurt dropped his needle and leveled Chandler with a stern look. "Did you come here to recruit me or do you have other business?"

Chandler sighed. "I was only wondering if you'd like to have a night off. Go out on the town with me, but if you're too busy..."

Despite the fact that Kurt knew he trailed off to intentionally goad him into saying yes, he really could use a night away from the tiny stitches that had his hands cramping and his back screaming in agony when he laid his head on the pillow at night. He set the dress down, smoothing the fabric so it wouldn't wrinkle, and stuck the needle in a pincushion.

"Where to, Mr. Kiehl?" he asked, removing his glasses and retrieving his hat and overcoat from the stand in the corner.

Chandler practically clapped his hands in delight. "You won't regret this."

"Let's hope not," Kurt replied.

The dreary fall weather seemed to mimic Blaine's conflicted thoughts, and he was so distracted that he left his umbrella at home, forcing him to walk six blocks in the rain. And now he sat across from Sam, dripping helplessly onto the carpet.

"So, I heard Quinn's already expecting," Sam said. "You work quickly."

"That's one way of putting it," Blaine said, shaking some of the water from his clothing.

"What's the other way?"

"Nevermind," Blaine replied. "That's not why I'm here. Well, not really." Blaine took out a cigarette and lit it, grateful his matchsafe had kept his matches dry. On the first inhale, he sat back in his chair and let the calm wash over him. "My grandfather confronted me about you contacting his attorney in Florida."

Sam's eyes went wide. "I swear I was careful," he said, immediately defensive.

Blaine held up a hand. "It's alright," he said. "I told him I came to see you about setting up Quinn and the baby should something happen to me." Absently, he flicked the ash from his cigarette on the floor — not the most civilized action, but he didn't see an ashtray out. "So, I will need you to draft a will for me."

"Of course," Sam said, pulling out a pen and dipping it in the ink. "I assume you want to leave your estate to Quinn and the child when he or she is of age."

Blaine nodded, but knew it wasn't quite enough. "I want it so iron-clad that she will never have to answer to anyone. So she won't have to remarry... unless she wants to, of course." He took another drag of his cigarette. "There can't be any loopholes — not for her father, or my parents... no one."

"I understand," Sam said. "But why the urgency?"

Blaine wasn't sure. He simply felt the need to provide for his wife and unborn child and now seemed as good a time as ever. "It's just a precaution," he said. "Should something happen to me — an illness, an accident — I want her to be her own woman."

"Hopefully those are unlikely events, but I respect your foresight. An accidental death would be a shock, and you wouldn't want to leave her out in the cold."

"She just shouldn't have to rely on anyone, not if she's grieving and has a child to raise. Now that I'm 25 and married, I have started receiving payments from my trust. Can we make sure that's transferred to her when I die?"

"It's one thing to be responsible, Blaine, but you've really thought this through." Sam chuckled. "Should I be worried you're going to disappear on me?"

"What?" Blaine asked, incredulous at the notion. "Of course not. I'm just looking out for my family. If I'm set to inherit that kind of money, I need to ensure it's not lumped back into my grandfather's estate, leaving my wife and child nothing."

"Okay, I get the point," Sam said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "Just promise me one thing."

"Of course."

"You won't run off with that Kurt fellow and leave me holding the bag."

Blaine's heartbeat increased its tempo. He swallowed and gave Sam a reassuring smile. "No, of course not."

Chandler succeeded in getting Kurt to let loose a few nights a week, and soon Blaine's grandfather would be gone; things could return to normal. Even so, Kurt had grown fond of Chandler and was glad to have another man in his life who understood his predicaments.

Kurt paced, a lit cigarette clenched between his teeth, as he waited for Chandler to arrive. It wasn't rare for Chandler to show up late to Kurt's shop on the nights they would go to the theatre together, but he had missed the play entirely, and that was completely unlike him. Kurt eventually tried to sleep, but he tossed and turned and only managed to doze for about an hour just before sunrise. When Chandler still hadn't made an appearance by late morning, Kurt was really and truly worried.

His arrival at Columbia Hall was greeted by a fairy Kurt only knew as Lady Bougainvillea, who told Kurt that he hadn't seen Chandler since the day before.

"He had a new client at Miss Lopez's. You know, that place on West 27th that's a more traditional brothel? They specialize in discretion for clients who don't want to be seen in the Bowery."

Kurt nodded, remembering the gentleman who'd given him a calling card for the boarding house when he'd first visited Columbia Hall so many months ago.

"And he never came back?"

"Not that I saw," Lady B replied. "He said he had plans last night, though. So he's probably still with his gentleman from yesterday."

"He was supposed to meet me," Kurt said, deflating. "He never showed up."

Lady B clapped Kurt on the shoulder. "I wouldn't worry, darling. He probably got tied up with his client. That boy has a way with the fickle ones. I'd wager he comes back with a fat wad of cash and a regular weekly appointment."

"I'm sure you're right," Kurt said, even as something sank low and ominous in his gut. There was nothing else to do but try to locate Chandler at Miss Lopez's.

The building itself was unassuming, little more than a basic boarding house, with a sign out front proudly proclaiming it to be Miss Lopez's Ladies Seminary.

Before his fist could strike the door, it swung open to reveal a dark-haired woman glaring up at Kurt. Her brown eyes were narrowed and suspicious, her full lips pursed.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"Uh, yes...hello," Kurt stammered. "I was looking for Chandler Kiehl."

"He's not available," she spat, and started to close the door. Kurt caught it with his foot at the last second.

"Please," he said. "He's my friend, and I'm worried about him."

The woman paused, her eyes shifting to the floor and back into the house.

"You should tell him, Santana," a soft monotone voice said from the other side of the door. A blonde woman peeked out from behind it. "Hello," she said.

Kurt smiled at her, but returned his attention to the woman who had answered the door. "Miss Lopez, I promise I won't cause any trouble. I just want to know what happened to my friend."

She looked him up and down for a moment, as if she were weighing and measuring him with her eyes. She must have decided Kurt passed the test, because she swung open the door and beckoned him inside. She didn't speak until they were seated in her parlor. The young blonde from the door brought them tea and left them alone.

"How much do you know about my business, Mr...?"

"Hummel," Kurt said. "Only that you specialize in discretion."

"So I'm sure you'll understand why I was so reticent to let you in," she said. "I have to be very careful about who I let through my doors. I cater to a clientele that demands discretion. The men and women who come here have prominent family names, money... prestige. Not everyone wants to flounce around the Bowery with powdered men masquerading as ugly women."

Kurt bristled at that. Some of those "ugly women" were his friends. "I understand," he said, his voice pinched and thin. "Could you tell me where Chandler is?"

Miss Lopez took a sip of her tea, slowly pulling the cup from her lips, the china clinking as she set it and saucer on the small table to her left. "He's dead," she said plainly and without making eye contact.

Kurt's teacup made a much louder sound when it shattered at his feet. His hands were shaking when he looked down at them, but his brain was still processing her words. "He's... what?"

"Dead," Miss Lopez repeated. "We had an unfortunate incident last night with a client and poor Chandler paid the price."

"What sort of incident?" Kurt demanded, practically spitting the last word.

"I had a client who specifically asked for him," she said. "Not unusual, especially with Chandler, so I set up an appointment for them." She paused and picked up her teacup again, taking another excruciatingly long sip.

Kurt wanted to ask her to just get on with it, but his throat felt tight, and the words would not form. As he waited for her to set the cup down again, it felt like he was watching one of his and Chandler's plays rather than living this moment. The clink of the china was the orchestration of the scene. His eyes fell on the shattered teacup at his feet, the scenery of this tragedy. He knew the wet spot on the floor would surely stain, but he couldn't make his limbs move to clean it up, and Miss Lopez seemed unconcerned. So he watched the light reflecting in his wasted tea; as the wind blew through the tree out front, the shadows danced across the surface of the puddle.

"This gentleman was apparently one of those appalling miscreants who hate themselves and has to take it out on others. He practically begged me for a young, pretty boy, and when he saw Mr. Kiehl he was gone. He wouldn't settle for another rent boy after that."

"I bet Chandler was flattered," Kurt said wryly.

"He was," Miss Lopez said with a fleeting smile. "I've never seen the kid so excited." She looked down at the wet spot between Kurt's feet. "I should get Brittany to clean that up," she said absently.

Now that he'd found his voice, Kurt wanted her to just finish her story. "What happened, Miss Lopez? How did he die?" Kurt swallowed heavily.

Miss Lopez looked up at him, her eyes vacant for a moment before she shook her head and smiled at him. "Yes, of course," she said. "Well, everything was relatively normal, nothing out of the ordinary. Mr. Karofsky received the services he paid for and left."

"Karofsky?" Kurt asked. "Is his first name David, by chance?"

"You know him?" Miss Lopez asked, wide-eyed.

Kurt nodded slowly. He had gone to school with David and knew firsthand the temper and anger that simmered beneath the surface of a baby-faced young man who had once called Kurt a disgusting fairy before spitting on him and pushing him into the street. He shivered at the memory.

"What happened then?"

"Well, Mr. Kiehl left not long after Mr. Karofsky and apparently the two spoke on the street not far from here. One of my girls saw them. She said Mr. Karofsky was visibly angry and shouted, 'I don't know you, sir. Please step away from me before I summon the police.' She said Mr. Kiehl laughed at him and set off in the opposite direction whistling and swinging his walking stick. Becky said Mr. Karofsky stood on the corner for a bit, smoking a cigarette, and then set off in the direction Mr. Kiehl had gone." She paused and reached into a silver box on the table next to her teacup, retrieving a cigarette. "Do you mind?" she asked.

Kurt shook his head and leaned forward in his chair.

Miss Lopez lit her cigarette and took an exaggerated drag. She looked like she was steeling herself for what she had to say next. Kurt's blood ran cold. The cloud of smoke settled between them like a heavy curtain, giving the room an ominous ghostly aura. Was Chandler simply a cloud of smoke now? Or a mere memory in Kurt's mind and no longer the cheerful young man who had stumbled through the streets of Atlanta with him earlier that year? Kurt suddenly wished he had a cigarette too, but his hands were still shaking, and he didn't trust himself to light one.

The silence had practically become a character in the tragedy playing out before them by the time Miss Lopez spoke again.

"They found his body in an alley three blocks over," she said. "He was beaten brutally, his face unrecognizable. I only found out because Mr. Kiehl had one of my calling cards on him and they came to ask me if I knew him. I identified him by his clothing." Her face remained stoic, but her eyes were watery as she took another long drag of her cigarette. Kurt realized she was the first woman he'd ever seen smoke and he didn't find it at all odd. Somehow, the act suited Miss Lopez in a way he didn't think it would suit Rachel or Quinn. It was an odd thought, considering the circumstances.

"Where is Mr. Karofsky?" Kurt asked, his voice reed-thin and shaky. His frayed nerves gave him unexpected courage. It wasn't as if he could take on the man he knew was quite a bit larger and more muscular than himself, but his rage had taken over.

"The police questioned him but once they figured out what Mr. Kiehl was, they decided not to investigate further."

"That's unconscionable!"

"Mr. Hummel, do you really expect the police to care about a rent boy when the man who killed him was an upstanding gentleman with piles of money?" She stubbed out her cigarette. "Your friend was a second-class citizen, and as far as the police are concerned, Karofsky did them a favor."

Kurt's heart sank. She was right.

He barely remembered the rest of his visit after that. He had a vague memory of the blonde girl cleaning up his shattered teacup, and Miss Lopez promising she'd never let David Karofsky in her establishment again, but otherwise it was a foggy blur.

Kurt's only thought was to get to Blaine.

It was Dr. Anderson's last day in New York and Blaine's mother wanted to host a tea in honor of Quinn.

A knock at the door caused his mother to glance around the room questioningly. "Everyone I invited is here," she said. "I wonder who that could be."

Blaine's grandfather rose to his feet. "I'll see to it, Helen. You're the hostess; you should stay with your guests."

Something in his expression set Blaine on edge. It wasn't like his grandfather to volunteer to perform duties ordinarily reserved for servants. Answering the door certainly fell within that category. Even as he chatted with Quinn's cousin, his eyes kept flitting to the door of the parlor, impatiently awaiting his grandfather's return.

When the door slammed a few moments later, he jumped. Dr. Anderson strode into the room with purpose. "Blaine, I need to speak with you," he said without preamble.

Blaine rose to his feet and followed him out of the room and into the library.

Dr. Anderson did not wait for Blaine to speak. "That was your friend Mr. Hummel," he spat. He pulled a cigar from Blaine's father's humidor and cut the tip.

"Grandfather, I swear..."

Dr. Anderson held up a hand. "He told me you did not know he was coming by, and I believed him. But I told him that if he ever darkened our door again, I would have him arrested."

"You didn't!" Blaine shrieked.

"You're to have NO contact with him, Blaine. I made that clear. He needs to understand that this family has a reputation to protect, and I will not have him sullying our good name."

"What if he needed something?"

"If that's the case, I'm sure he has other friends he can call on," Dr. Anderson replied. "Now, let's get back to the party. It's rude to leave your guests."

Blaine didn't respond; he simply followed his grandfather back to the parlor where he sulked for the remainder of the afternoon.

That night, unable to wait to see Kurt, he set about drafting a letter.

My darling,

Please forgive my grandfather's harsh words. I know that something terrible must have happened for you to risk showing up unannounced. Please know that his words are not my words, and I am forever yours — no matter what he says.

I am reminded of a passage from Dorian Gray:

"When our eyes met, I felt that I was growing pale. A curious sensation of terror came over me. I knew that I had come face to face with someone whose mere personality was so fascinating that if I allowed it to do so, it would absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art itself. I did not want any external influence I my life...I have always been my own master; had at least always been so, till I met Dorian Gray...I had a strange feeling that fate had in store for me exquisite joys and exquisite sorrows...I take no credit to myself for trying to escape...It was simply inevitable. We would have spoken to each other without any introduction, I am sure of that. Dorian told me so afterwards. He, too, felt that we were destined to know each other."

We were destined to know each other, my love, and I will cherish that thought always.

All my love,
B

He considered including a promise to call on him soon, but he couldn't risk it being intercepted and someone being able to catch them together. But before he sealed it, he enclosed the photo of him that had been taken in St. Augustine and signed it, "Someday. – B." He made sure he handed it to the postman himself.

Scared, and without Blaine to tether him, Kurt felt utterly lost. Blaine's grandfather had told him in no uncertain terms that Blaine had decided to focus on his family and that he'd never see him again. So when he received a letter from Blaine a day later — a letter that did nothing to dispute such a claim — he was certain it was true.

He had placed the photo along with the letter inside his copy of Dorian Gray and shelved it.

Kurt felt alone and drifting. He hadn't been able to work since he'd heard about Chandler, and his last few orders went unfinished. He began to box up things that reminded him of Blaine, unable to face them every day. He had just finished going through the items on his desk, when he noticed a slip of paper sticking out of a book he'd never finished reading.

It was the last letter he'd received from Felix. He read it again, and knew instantly what he wanted to do.

He dashed off a quick note to the painter, and put it in the mail that same day. Without Blaine and the specter of Chandler's death haunting him, he had no reason to stay. His dad had Carole, and Rachel had Finn. All he had was a business that reminded him of his friend's tragic death and a love he could no longer call his own. All of the loose ends were tied up with neat little bows, and it felt too dangerous to stay. He needed to get away from it all – Karofsky, Chandler, Blaine, New York.

He started packing that very night.

Kurt's soul was a magnet pulling Blaine onward. He had waited several days after his grandfather left to go see Kurt and he was brimming with need to touch him.

But when Blaine arrived, he found Kurt's shop closed, his apartment empty. There was no trace of him to be found.

Blaine's heart sank.

Rachel wrote to Kurt at his new address in Paris a few weeks later, telling him that Blaine had called on Burt to ask about him. She said, Blaine had been frantic about finding him. For two days he let himself hope that Blaine would come to see him.

After a week, he started looking for a letter.

After a month, he decided to move on.

Blaine had a plan. He needed to get to Paris to see Kurt. There was no other choice.

"I'm sailing to Europe, but I'll be back before the baby is born," Blaine said as he threw a few things in his trunk.

Quinn's face fell. "Do you have to go now?" she asked. "What if something happens?"

He kissed her on the forehead. "You'll be fine, darling. I wouldn't go if it weren't absolutely necessary." His heart ached in his chest at the look forlorn look on her face. He wished there was something to do to comfort her, but he had to see Kurt. He knew it in his soul.

He kissed his wife again as he left her waving sadly in the doorway to their house, her belly beginning to swell with a child that would never truly be his. Blaine pushed his hat down on his head, and wrapped himself in his overcoat.

"We should name her Elizabeth," he said.

"What if it's a boy?" Quinn replied for the hundredth time.

"It's a girl," he said, as certain as he'd ever been in his life. He offered Quinn one last smile and climbed into the waiting carriage.

The boat Blaine had hired was small, more like a small fishing boat than an ocean liner, but it would have to suffice. The night air was cold and damp, and the water choppy and dark.

Blaine leaned far over the edge to watch the waves crash against the side of the boat. As he reached for the railing, his hand slipped, causing his elbow to strike the hard surface instead. As he tried to right himself, his foot slipped on the slick, damp wood beneath his feet, and he fell into the sea, the water like icy needles against his skin before the blackness consumed him.