Chapter 3

Golf went as expected, and Blaine, feeling thoroughly chastised over his lack of athletic skill and an even greater lack of knowledge of medicine, wanted desperately to get cleaned up so he could be on time to meet Kurt in the hotel lobby.

He tried to ignore his grandfather's piercing gaze as he changed and headed out for the afternoon.

"Don't forget," came the admonishment as Blaine made his way downstairs, his grandfather's ever-present stout form reclining in his chair in the library, "we have dinner this evening and you will be on time for drinks."

"Yes, grandfather," Blaine said. He tried to keep the annoyed tone out of his voice, but judging by his grandfather's sharp glare, he had not succeeded.

He hurried out of the house and across the street to the hotel. Taking the back entrance earned him peculiar looks from the hotel staff, but he didn't care. The idea of walking the long way around to make some sort of grand entrance made his skin crawl. He just wanted to get to Kurt.

"Excuse me," Blaine said to the bellboy waiting at the foot of the stairs, "can you tell me if Mr. Hummel has come down yet?"

"I'm not sure, sir. Perhaps you should inquire at the desk."

"Thank you," he said, taking out a cigarette and lighting it. He glanced around the lobby, ducking between the carved wood columns and lush potted trees to see if he could spot Kurt's elegant stature. He smiled at a young woman and bowed in her direction when she made eye contact. If her coquettish smile and the way she hid behind her fan were any indication, Blaine's charms were in full effect. He hoped they would be of some use on Kurt.

Still not seeing his companion for the afternoon, he approached the front desk, where the assistant cashier, Mr. Greaves, was on duty.

"Good morning, Mr. Anderson. Will you be joining us for lunch?"

"Sorry, Greaves, but I have other plans – with one of your guests, actually. Mr. Hummel?"

"Mr. Burt Hummel is taking luncheon in the dining room, so I assume you mean the younger Mr. Hummel. He's in the courtyard." Greaves smiled as he pointed out the soaring double doors that led into the sunlit Spanish courtyard.

"Thank you," Blaine said, trying to hide his excitement as he stepped out into the warm afternoon.

There were several hotel guests taking their midday stroll along the loggias as a few of the older guests relaxed in chairs placed along the arching paths surrounding the terracotta fountain. A little girl with pale blonde hair, her parents nowhere in sight, played with a wooden toy dog in front of it. The courtyard seemed fairly empty compared to its usual buzz of activity, but it was lunch time after all.

The thick ivy clinging to the stark, gray concrete and coquina walls made the courtyard look less institutional and more relaxed. The palm trees still appeared odd to Blaine, the fronds looking fake and uncaring to him in the way the expansive leaves of maple trees never did. He had already grown fond of the canopy of magnolias in his grandfather's yard thanks to the soothing shade of them and the quiet whisper of the thick leaves in the morning breeze. Those felt more like real trees, and the rich, white blossoms that would soon weigh down the branches already smelled divine.

Blaine wandered the pathways, his eyes searching out a tall man with eyes like the sea. He wondered briefly if Kurt had changed his mind, decided Blaine had been too forward. Maybe he could sense Blaine's intentions and was horrified at the thought.

But then there he was.

Kurt was seated in the shade of a small palm, legs crossed like a child who was waiting for his nanny to read him a story, a fashionable straw hat perched on his head, as he read a small, worn-looking book. He was positively engrossed and neither saw nor heard Blaine approach.

"I was beginning to worry you'd changed your mind," Blaine said.

Kurt looked up, startled, and shielded his eyes from the midday sun. "Oh, not at all," he said. "It was just warmer reading out here in the sun than in the lobby."

"Then why are you in the shade?"

"Fair skin," Kurt said. "I freckle just like a girl."

"You look like a man to me," Blaine said before he could stop himself.

Kurt looked as if he were blushing, but maybe it was just a natural reaction to the combination of the slightly cool winter air with the too-bright sun.

"I just meant–"

"It's alright," Kurt said, standing up and dusting off his trousers. "It's just that I don't hear that very much. I get called Nancy boy and a dandy far too often for my own liking. It's rather nice to know I don't give off that impression to everyone I meet."

"I would never say such things about you," Blaine said. He'd heard those things about himself and knew what they implied.

"What are you reading?" he asked, looking down at the small, brown volume in Kurt's left hand.

"You'll laugh," Kurt said, casting his eyes down as he turned the book in his hands.

"No, I won't."

"Considering the conversation we just had, I think you just might," Kurt said. He held the book up for Blaine's inspection.

Blaine couldn't help himself; he laughed, loud and raucous. A matron in black several feet away turned and tutted sternly at the young men. Kurt, looking mortified, tipped his hat in apology and gave her a tight smile.

"I told you, you'd laugh," Kurt said under his breath.

"Indeed you did," Blaine replied, his laughter now down to a low chuckle. "But you have to admit, it is quite a coincidence. You might as well be reading Whitman."

"The Picture of Dorian Gray is a popular novel," Kurt said. "I hardly think it's cause for alarm, or a claim that I'm some... some aesthete."

"Oh, but I think you are," Blaine teased.

Kurt huffed, squaring his shoulders as he clenched his hands in fists. "I should strike you for saying such things, sir."

"And yet I don't think you shall," Blaine said, squinting into the sun and not making eye contact. "I'm a fan of Mr. Wilde myself. And Mr. Whitman." His tone now was matter-of-fact; the teasing quality was gone as he peered sideways at Kurt. He held out the book for Kurt to take, hoping he would accept it along with Blaine's implied meaning.

Kurt's jaw relaxed as he retrieved his novel from Blaine's grip, giving no indication that he'd picked up on the hidden undertone of Blaine's words. Why must these things be so difficult, Blaine wondered. If Kurt were a woman, he could simply make his intentions known and that would be that. He'd call on Kurt in the evenings, make his case to Kurt's father, and then they would be betrothed.

It was the first time in Blaine Anderson's life he had considered the idea of marriage. He nearly dropped his cigarette at the thought. It didn't even occur to him to be concerned that he was having these thoughts about a young man.

"Are we still on for sailing?" he asked, eager to change the subject. He took a quick inhale from his cigarette. "Or have I offended you too deeply to remain in my roguish company?"

"I am a man of my word, Mr. Anderson," Kurt said. He raised his chin proudly and challenged Blaine to declare otherwise. "In spite of your rude comments."

Blaine leaned in as close as he dared in mixed company and said, "I meant it as a compliment."

Kurt's eyes went wide, but his set jaw and rigid posture never faltered. He cleared his throat. "Uh, well then... thank you."

"Shall we?" Blaine gestured toward the hotel lobby and walked alongside Kurt as they reentered the building.

"I just need to grab our lunch from the kitchen," Kurt said. "I talked one of the waiters into preparing us something."

"Look at you," Blaine said. "Conspiring with the staff. Have I been such a wicked influence on you already?"

Blaine tried to ignore the flirtatious glint he imagined in Kurt's eyes, reasoning it must simply have been a trick of the light.

The brief trip to the beach wasn't much of a sail after all. The waves were small and the wind nearly non-existent. So the young men chose a small stretch of sand near the inlet where they could see the city skyline and look out over the ocean at the same time. Kurt unpacked their lunch on a blanket — borrowed discreetly from the hotel on Blaine's suggestion — and they sat while Kurt read aloud from Dorian Gray. Blaine leaned back on one elbow, enthralled with every syllable uttered from Kurt's full, pink lips.

"Don't you just love the way he writes of Dorian?" Kurt asked. "The way Mr. Wilde describes how the young man changed the painter's life. It's positively decadent."

"Read it to me again," Blaine said, rolling onto his back and gazing up at the fluffy white clouds against the bright blue sky, and not so much hearing the words as Kurt spoke them, but rather absorbing the young man's melodious voice as it carried him away into a fantasy he dared not indulge.

Kurt smiled at him and lowered his eyes to the book again, and read: "The merely visible presence of this lad—for he seems to me little more than a lad, though he is really over twenty—his merely visible presence—ah! I wonder can you realize all that that means? Unconsciously he defines for me the lines of a fresh school, a school that is to have in it all the passion of the romantic spirit, all the perfection of the spirit that is Greek."

Setting the book carefully down in his lap, Kurt sighed. "Isn't that just delicious?"

For his part, Blaine had at some point during Kurt's oration, rolled back onto his side, propping his head on his right elbow to watch Kurt's profile haloed in the afternoon sun, and so when Kurt asked the question, Blaine replied emphatically, "Good enough to eat. Too bad we've just had luncheon."

Kurt laughed again, a full, hearty belly laugh that echoed across the beach and tickled Blaine's heartstrings. When he looked down at Blaine, his eyes were glinting brightly, all traces of green hidden beneath pure blue, and he wondered if Kurt knew the true meaning behind Mr. Wilde's words. He longed to tell him, confess his own feelings on the matter. But Blaine's gaze must have been intense or perhaps lingered a second too long because Kurt's expression hardened and he turned abruptly to face the water.

"I wish we could go swimming," Kurt said wistfully.

Blaine sat upright and grinned, welcoming the opportunity to perhaps ease the tension between them. "Who says we can't?"

"But we haven't the proper clothes," Kurt said, looking positively scandalized.

Blaine didn't care. Kurt's earlier words — well, Mr. Wilde's words on Kurt's lips anyway — had made Blaine bold and maybe a little careless.

"It's just us, Kurt," Blaine said, already unbuttoning his waistcoat. "Didn't you ever go swimming as a boy? It will be just like that."

"Yes, but I was usually alone or properly dressed."

"Oh, come on, Kurt," Blaine said, toeing off his shoes and working at the buttons on his trousers. "I did this with my school chums all the time. There's no one here."

Kurt looked around at the empty beach. It was probably a little cold for sunbathing today, and the water was surely freezing. He glanced up at Blaine, mouth open and likely preparing to offer another protest. It would be useless if he did; there was no way Kurt was going to dissuade him from his goal now.

"Last one to the shore is a stuck goose," Blaine called, and took off running, dropping his pants in the sand. He didn't look to see if Kurt followed, but he soon heard heavy footfalls behind him and turned to see a now shirtless Kurt, careening toward him, his hands fumbling with his trousers as he rushed into the water.

Kurt's face went nearly white with shock as his skin was assaulted by the icy fingers of the frigid water.

"Oh great mother in heaven!" Kurt exclaimed. "It's f-freezing."

"You'll get used to it," Blaine insisted through his own chattering teeth.

The sunlight glinted on Kurt's damp skin as he drew closer. Blaine could see his skin was dotted with gooseflesh and his nipples were peaked and rosy from the cold.

"I think I forgot it's still actually winter," Kurt said, his voice shaky both from laughter and the chill.

"One does seem to forget reality here, doesn't he?" Blaine leaned forward and brushed a strand of hair out of Kurt's eyes, wiping away a drip of water it left in its wake.

For a second Kurt looked like he might flee, his body now shaking visibly from the cold.

"Sorry," Blaine said, pulling his hand back with a jerk. "You don't want to get the salt water in your eyes. It burns."

"Oh," Kurt said, hugging his arms tight across his chest. "Thank you. I hadn't realized."

That gave Blaine a moment to collect himself, before he said, "Trust me, you only have to learn that lesson once. Either that or you get used to it."

"Are you used to it?" Kurt asked, his eyes darting to Blaine's forehead.

"Mostly."

"Oh, good. Because there's a drip..." he said, pointing to Blaine's forehead, but not making contact. Blaine leaned forward a little on instinct and felt his toes dig into the sand, the water lapping at their torsos in undulating waves. But then he lost his balance and nearly toppled into Kurt as a larger wave overcame them. He ducked under the water and surfaced just a few feet away from where they had been standing. When he began sputtering, teeth chattering from the cold and eyes burning from the briny water, Kurt laughed.

"You think that's funny, do you?" Blaine asked, sounding, even to his own ears, like a petulant child.

"Oh, it's quite humorous, from where I'm standing. You should see yourself – flopping around like a cat that's fallen in the rain barrel."

Blaine reached up to run his hand through his hair, shaking the water free from his curls. "Oh, you're going to pay for that, Mr. Hummel," he said as he slowly made his way closer to Kurt, slinking along like a predator stalking its prey.

And then a loud shriek pierced the otherwise silent beach as Blaine sloshed a great wave of water toward Kurt's face before toppling him into the waves and pulling him under.

When they surfaced, Kurt's arms were wrapped around Blaine's midsection, clinging for dear life as he tried to find his footing, and he was sputtering even harder than Blaine had before. He'd been caught completely off guard by Blaine's assault, and he looked as if he'd been out in the rain for hours, soaked clean through and grouchy as an old widow.

"Don't be cross with me," Blaine pouted. "You were teasing me too."

Kurt glared at him and released his grip, much to Blaine's displeasure. "I don't get cross," he said. "I get even."

"Is that a threat?"

"It's a promise," Kurt said, ambling back up the beach in search of his dry clothes.

Blaine chuckled to himself as he watched Kurt silhouetted against the rust-colored sand. He looked like a Greek god in the midday sun, and yet, Kurt shied away from Blaine's affections at every turn. Had he misjudged?

If he had, at least he hadn't scared Kurt off entirely. Something to be said for the naivety of youth.

Perhaps he'd averted tragedy for the moment.

"Kurt," he called. "Your trousers are soaked clean through." He picked them up from where they were lolling in the surf, and held them high overhead. "We shall have to wait until they are a dry before we head back."

Kurt looked up from where he was shaking sand from his shirt and frowned.

"I hope I'm not keeping you from your family obligations," Kurt said. "I can certainly bear damp trousers if you need to return to Markland."

"Not until it's time to dress for dinner," Blaine said. He laid Kurt's trousers out in the sun to dry. "Until then, I am all yours. We have plenty of time to find out what Lord Henry thinks of Mr. Dorian Gray."

He dropped himself on the blanket next to Kurt and grabbed up the book from where it had fallen, thumbing through the pages until he found the last words he could recall Kurt speaking from its pages.

"Here we are then," he said, handing the book to Kurt.

"Blaine, we were at least three pages ahead of this," Kurt said, frowning at the book.

"I must have dozed off," Blaine replied with a smile. "You'll just have to read it again."

"Am I that boring to you, Mr. Anderson?"

Blaine looked up sharply, realizing only a moment too late that his daydreaming and the subsequent cover story had backfired on him a little.

"Quite the opposite, actually," Blaine said. "I've always been so absent-minded, you see. I was forever getting criticized for it in school. It's a wonder I got my diploma at all."

"Maybe you should be the one to read aloud, then."

"No, please," Blaine said. "I do so like the timbre of your voice." Perhaps he spoke a little too candidly, but Kurt didn't seem to mind.

"Well, that's a first," Kurt said, a single eyebrow raised in curiosity. "Usually when men your age hear me speak, they ask me if I'm yet able to grow whiskers."

It was true that Kurt's voice was of a higher pitch than most men of nineteen years, but Blaine found it soothing and it hurt him to know that Kurt had been made to feel that it was less than masculine.

"You sound plenty old enough to grow whiskers to me. In fact..." Blaine trailed off as he leaned forward to see Kurt's jaw line more clearly. "I can see the hint of a shadow on your chin right now. So it's with certainty I can say you're a grown man."

Kurt shoved his shoulder playfully and Blaine landed on the blanket with a dull thud, feigning offense at Kurt's derision.

"You know," Kurt said, looking out over the rolling waves. The sun was sinking lower in the horizon and he had to squint to look west toward town, so they sat with the sun at their backs. "Everyone says you're a bit of a cad."

"Who's everyone?"

"The hotel guests," Kurt said. "My father."

"Well then it must be true," Blaine said, picking at the edge of the blanket. He had long ago ceased to be concerned with what others thought. A little talk was nothing if no one had proof, and at any rate, it simply wasn't true. Blaine might be a great many things, but he was definitely not the heartless rogue people had made him out to be. Nevertheless, he'd done very little to dissuade his acquaintances of their false opinions.

"I don't believe it," Kurt said.

"Oh?" Blaine said, his interest piqued.

"No," Kurt replied, sincerely. "I think you're... misunderstood."

Blaine turned to his back and sighed. "Aren't we all?" he said.

"Perhaps. It's not as if people ever take the time to get to know one another."

"So jaded for one so young, Mr. Hummel," Blaine teased.

"I'm not jaded," Kurt said. "I'm simply a realist. Do you feel like anyone really knows you?"

Blaine pondered that for a moment. His brother understood him in ways no one else did, and there had, of course, been Oliver. But no one knew the real Blaine Anderson; no one had ever bothered to try. He slowly shook his head in response to Kurt's question.

"Exactly. No one really cares," Kurt said. He picked at the ground beneath his feet, fingers making lazy patterns in the coarse sand. He picked up a broken shell and lobbed it toward the water.

Blaine looked up at him then, this sad, beautiful boy and said, "I care, Kurt."

At Blaine's words, Kurt turned so quickly that his still-damp hair flopped thickly over his forehead. Blaine ached to smooth it away from his face.

"You barely know me," Kurt said.

"I'd like to know more," Blaine insisted. "It sounds like we could both use a friend."

"Friends," Kurt said with a gentle smile. "I'd like that."

Their gazes lingered on one another for a moment before Blaine's fear overtook him. He stood up so quickly his head spun from all the blood rushing to it. He took a moment to steady himself and then walked over to where Kurt's trousers were drying in the sun. Running his hand along the seams, he found they were only slightly damp now.

"I think we should head back," he said. "Your clothes are nearly dry, and it's getting late."

He glanced back and noticed Kurt's face had fallen into a confused expression, but he didn't inquire after it. He simply gathered up Kurt's clothing and handed it off, looking away as Kurt dressed himself.

By the time they had cleaned up everything and were back on the boat, Blaine could tell they were barely going to make it back in time to dress for dinner. His grandfather was going to be furious.

The trip back to the bayfront was quiet, neither of them looking to break the gentle spell of the afternoon. Kurt stared out over the water and Blaine watched him curiously, noting the high color in his cheeks from a few hours in the sun, his delicate pink-and-white complexion dotted with light freckles. Kurt hadn't been lying; the tiny brown flecks of color stood out shockingly dark against his skin, daring Blaine to map them out across Kurt's body. Kurt's soft, brown hair looked golden in the waning sunlight, a halo fit for an angel or at least someone as striking as Kurt.

When Kurt glanced back at Blaine, his cornflower blue eyes seemed to plead with him not to let their time together end yet, and Blaine wanted the same. He longed to get lost in Kurt's eyes as he memorized every fleck of green and gold in them.

"Thank you for taking me sailing," Kurt said.

"It was my honest and sincere pleasure," Blaine replied, unable to keep the broad smile from his face. The tightness of his cheeks served as a pleasant reminder of a precious afternoon spent at the seaside. He licked his lips, tasting the salt that lingered there and wondered if Kurt's lips were as salty as his own. Funny how a memory could linger like that — a pleasant phantom of so many wonderful things he had yet to savor.

Hands working quickly to secure the sail, he considered inviting Kurt and his father to join him for brandy after dinner. Would his grandfather mind the intrusion? They were supposed to entertain the Fabrays, but surely there could be no harm in asking two gentlemen to join them. Just as Blaine was tying off the boat and stepping ashore, the cathedral's bells chimed the hour.

"Has it really gotten that late?" Blaine asked, not really needing the answer. He could count the chimes as easily as Kurt could. They were going to be late for dinner if they didn't hurry.

Without thinking, Blaine grabbed Kurt's wrist and tugged him down from the boat. He began sprinting toward the Ponce, the clattering of the picnic basket against Kurt's hip echoing through the plaza.

He and Kurt parted without a word at the front gate to the hotel and Blaine continued down King Street toward Markland. As the staunch, white columns came into view, he settled into a light jog, hoping to catch his breath so his grandfather would have one less thing to criticize. He only hoped he made it early enough to bathe before dressing for dinner, yet late enough that he didn't have time for a lecture.

"Blaine Anderson," his grandfather's voice boomed out at him from where he sat in a rocking chair on the front porch. "Where on God's green earth have you been?"

"I went sailing, grandfather. I told you this morning."

"Yes, and I told you to be back in time for dinner."

Blaine scratched a pattern across the boards of the porch with the edge of his shoe, refusing to make eye contact. He knew if he saw the disapproval on his grandfather's face, his temper would get the better of him.

"I have plenty of time to dress," he said through clenched teeth.

"And you're filthy – covered in sand. You can't go in through the front entrance. Go around back and use the servants' entrance." His long arm extended out to his right as he pointed toward the back of the house.

Blaine looked down at his haggard appearance and bit back a laugh. He was indeed completely disheveled; sand was stuck to his trousers and shoes, and a dark, wet spot covered his left leg from hip to knee.

"And for heaven's sake, leave your damp trousers on the porch."

In defiance, Blaine unbuttoned his pants and disrobed in full view of every passerby on the busy street in front of Markland, daring his grandfather with his eyes to protest. He dropped the damp clothing over the porch railing and took off down the front steps making his way to the kitchen entrance.

"No wonder your mother sent you to me. You're no better than a child!"

"Pretentious old man," Blaine grumbled, climbing the steps to the kitchen.

He was knocked backward and scrambled to catch his balance when he collided with a tall, solid mass. A strong arm reached out and grabbed him to prevent him from falling off the small porch.

"Jenkins!" he exclaimed.

"My apologies, Mr. Blaine," the man said. "I was just headed back to the servants' quarters." His eyes traveled down the length of Blaine's body and widened when he saw the lack of garments below the waist. "Sir, can I fetch you a clean pair of trousers?"

"No, no," Blaine said, waving him off. "Just a bit of a sailing mishap. I need to dress for dinner anyway. Is my suit laid out?"

"Yessir."

"Very well, then," Blaine replied and walked off tall and proud as if he weren't half naked in his grandfather's kitchen.

The routine for dinner was exactly the same as the previous evening, and Blaine was bored before they even got to the hotel. Even the gorgeous lobby and dining room of the Ponce seemed redundant now, and he simply wanted the evening to draw to a close.

They approached a group standing at the foot of the staircase, and a stocky man with a thick, blonde mustache greeted his grandfather warmly.

"Andrew," he said in a booming voice that echoed through the crowded lobby.

"Russell, good to see you made it all in one piece," Blaine's grandfather replied, before turning back to Blaine and made the proper introductions. "Blaine, this is Mr. Russell Fabray, his wife Judith, and their daughter Lucy." "They'll be joining us for dinner this evening."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance," Blaine said, shaking Mr. Fabray's hand and nodding his greetings to the ladies, which included Mary Smethurst. When his eyes landed on Lucy, with her sparkling green eyes and blonde hair pinned back smartly, he smiled broadly and warmly, just as was expected of a young man being introduced to an attractive and available young lady. He could see his grandfather's terse nod of approval at Blaine's reaction.

"Gentleman, shall we find some drinks in the bar and leave the ladies to their more delicate conversation?"

"Andrew, I think that sounds like the best idea you've had all day," Mr. Fabray said, clapping him smartly on the shoulder.

Blaine gave his regards to the ladies and followed the gentlemen to the bar.

He forced himself to make conversation, talking about the stock market, the weather, even young women, but it was empty and tiring, and Blaine wanted nothing more than to have a stiff drink and end this charade as quickly as possible.

The bartender gave him the same forced smile and rehearsed warm welcome that every member of the hotel's staff seemed to use. In return, Blaine gave the cursory nod and expected response. The entire routine executed like a well-rehearsed play; Blaine felt like he was looking down on the scene from a balcony, letting the story play out while his fate was determined by a wayward playwright with no sense of realistic dialogue or proper pacing.

"Thank you," he said, accepting his drink from the barman. He sipped it, even though he felt like downing it, because that was the way it was done — every action a predetermined course; every word a line in a script.

He turned around and rested his elbow on the bar, scanning the room for a companion who might not make him want to stick his dessert fork in his ear. He saw his grandfather and Mr. Fabray, smoking cigars and patting each other on the back, no doubt congratulating each other on being such pompous blowhards. To their right he saw Roger Davis, picking at his buttons and trying to blend into the wallpaper, a nervous, half-hearted smile on his face. Blaine considered crossing the room to talk to him, if for no other reason to put him out of his misery, but then the gentleman to his left stepped back, and Kurt was standing right there at the end of the bar, a small glass of wine in one hand, as Charlie Atwater droned on about his family business, no doubt.

In reality, the boy knew nothing of it. He just liked people to think that he did. At just 18, Charlie was developing into a first-rate bore like his brother William, whom Blaine had known at Harvard.

Blaine's eyes were drawn back to Kurt. He reminded Blaine of a Greek statue, his prominent nose accenting his profile and furthering the notion that it was carved from marble. He looked proud without being boastful, and strong without even a hint of brute force, whereas Charlie came across as arrogant and shrill, like a yappy dog who'd gotten underfoot and nipped at one's heels. Blaine wanted desperately to relieve Kurt of such repugnant company. He also wanted to take him upstairs and pull him to pieces on a soft bed. Show him the ways of physical pleasure that had taken Blaine years to learn. Kurt would be a responsive pupil and an insatiable lover. He was sure of it.

"Gentlemen," Blaine said, interrupting Charlie midsentence, "have you seen the menu for this evening? Consommé again. I would rather drink the dregs of cheap whiskey than endure that another day."

Charlie was left gaping like a codfish at Blaine's intrusion. He likely assumed Kurt was enthralled by his tall tales, and that he had another name he could add to the list of society acquaintances with which he hoped to impress the ladies of Boston when he returned to school at the beginning of term.

"Blaine Anderson, I had no idea you'd be at the Ponce," Charlie said. He thwacked Blaine on the shoulder and shook his hand firmly. "Staying with your grandfather?"

"Yes, he's around here somewhere," Blaine said as Charlie craned his neck. "You should go say hello. We're dining with the Fabrays tonight. I'm sure they'd all love to hear how your mother is getting on in her new house."

"Oh yes, quite," Charlie said, and he was gone quick as a flash.

"That insufferable..." Blaine trailed off. He turned to smile at Kurt. "Mr. Hummel. Good to see you again."

Kurt beamed and then caught himself, hiding the familiarity behind his drink. "Mr. Anderson. Good evening." He paused and smirked over the rim of his glass. "I take it you got back to your grandfather's residence in time to dress for dinner."

Blaine couldn't help himself. He laughed at Kurt's teasing and relaxed a little at the realization that Kurt had dropped the formalities as quickly as he had. "Just barely. He lectured me on propriety before I was allowed to enter the house, and then I had to leave my damp trousers on the porch and walk round to the servant's entrance in my skivvies."

Kurt's face flushed as he bit his lower lip. "I hope no one saw you," he said.

"Only my grandfather's man, Jenkins. I'm sure he's seen bare legs before."

Blaine's mind flashed to sight of Kurt's bare legs, strong and lithe, as he dove into the waves.

He could see out of the corner of his eye that Kurt was biting back laughter, and it made his heart soar. He suddenly remembered the way Kurt had laughed freely that very afternoon, his face sunlit and carefree as they whiled away hours near the salty ocean. The pink of Kurt's cheeks and his darkened freckles served as the only tangible memento of the day.

"You're dining with the Fabrays this evening?" Kurt asked. "Pity. I was hoping you could join me and my father at our table. Regale us with your witty prose."

"Oh that I could," Blaine said, genuinely disappointed. "My grandfather is expecting me to court their daughter Lucy. And I'm on thin ice already. Otherwise, I'd certainly weasel my way out of it somehow."

They were quiet for a moment.

"She's lovely," Kurt said.

"Who?"

"Miss Fabray."

"Oh," Blaine said. "I suppose she is. If one is into that sort of... thing." He gestured to his front, indicating large bosoms, and Kurt giggled.

A tall, balding man with a friendly face suddenly appeared at Kurt's elbow. Blaine recognized him from dinner the night before.

"Kurt, they've rung the dinner bell; we need to be seated."

"Yes, of course," Kurt said, ever the gentleman, but on his lips, the words didn't seem scripted. "But first I'd like to introduce you to a friend of mine. Blaine Anderson, this is my father, Burt Hummel."

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Hummel," Blaine said, shaking the man's hand, noting that his grip was firm but not intimidating.

"So you're the young man who dominated my son's afternoon," Burt said. "I was beginning to think you might be a girl."

"Father!" Kurt said, sounding scandalized.

"Oh, lighten up," he said. "I just meant that I wondered if you had made this Blaine character up so you could run off with a young lady."

"You know I'm engaged to Rachel," Kurt said.

"Well, that's not married, now is it?" Burt elbowed Kurt gently in the side.

Kurt's jaw dropped again, but Burt's eyes were full of mirth. He obviously enjoyed riling his son up. Blaine liked him already.

"Kurt tells me you're working on some sort of new self-propelled engine over at Edison," Blaine said as they made their way to the dining room. "Maybe we could talk more about it over brandy later."

"Absolutely," Burt said. "We'll see you after dinner, Blaine."

Blaine nodded to Kurt with a smile, and set off to find his grandfather and their guests.

Banal chatter and thick, heavy sauces defined dinner, and it all began to feel like being trapped on the same brightly colored carousel going round and round until the end of time. Blaine glanced to the table where the Hummels were seated with the Barrows. Kurt looked as bored as Blaine felt, only less resigned to the repetition of life, and it occurred to Blaine for the first time that Kurt probably hadn't felt the circular drag of time that Blaine couldn't escape. Kurt had yet to experience the predictability of high society living, and something about that brightened his spirits. There was so much to show him, so much to experience through another's eyes — the wonder, the joy, the delight. He wanted to glut himself on it.

Just then, Kurt glanced up and smiled when he met Blaine's eyes. Blaine tipped his glass in the young man's direction and returned his gaze to the table. His grandfather was watching him closely, eyes narrowed. Blaine cleared his throat.

"Mrs. Fabray," he said. "I heard you're helping with the Alicia Hospital benefit this year."

He sighed heavily as Mrs. Fabray described the event in great detail from fireworks to a "real-life, authentic Venetian gondola" that was to make an appearance.

"Of course, our darling Lucy is quite the gracious hostess as well," Mrs. Fabray said, reciting the words as if they had been written for that exact moment. "I do hope you'll attend one of our fêtes in New York when the season is over."

"I'd be delighted," Blaine replied precisely on cue and drawing a perfectly timed demure smile from Lucy Fabray for his efforts.

Out of the corner of his eye, Blaine saw Dr. Anderson's expression soften into a satisfied smile as his grandson made a renewed attempt at polite conversation. Blaine was back to the script once again, and the old man couldn't have been happier.

"How is your father these days, Blaine?" Mr. Fabray inquired, scooping a large bite of fish into his gigantic mouth. His belly strained against his ill-fitting waistcoat, and Blaine wondered if it might burst if the man drank another sip of wine.

"He's as well as can be expected, I suppose. He hasn't me to criticize at the moment, though, so I'm sure he's feeling a bit perturbed over it all."

Blaine sniffed at his own joke and felt a pointed kick to his shin under the table. The jolt of pain caused him to inhale sharply. When he met his grandfather's eyes they were narrowed again, letting him know he was flubbing his lines. Blaine glanced nervously back at the Fabrays who were still staring at him rapt, imploring him to continue.

"Although, I haven't gotten a letter from home yet. I suspect mother will be writing soon. Shall I tell her you've asked after him?"

Blaine took another bite of his potatoes to keep himself from saying anything else his grandfather might find unsuitable.

"I suspect I'll hear from him soon enough if you take to our Lucy," Mr. Fabray said. He nudged Dr. Anderson's elbow and grinned broadly.

"Father!"

"Oh my pet, you needn't be embarrassed," he said. "We all know why we're here. No need to pad the stuffing further."

"Especially not in your case," Blaine muttered into his mashed potatoes.

"Beg your pardon?" Mr. Fabray said. He obviously hadn't heard Blaine's gibe based on his jovial smile, but his grandfather's glare could be felt keenly even without a sideways glance in his direction.

"It's no secret my grandson is in search of a wife," Dr. Anderson said, looking pointedly at Blaine. "Do not be embarrassed, Miss Lucy."

She looked down to where her hands were folded politely in her lap. "Word does get around," she said.

Blaine wanted to rescue her from such discussion. It never ceased to repulse him when women were treated as invisible, or worse, property. He was certain Lucy felt like the latter at the moment, and he needed her to know he did not feel the same.

"I abhor gossip," he said. "Never had much use for it."

Lucy's eyes shot up to meet his gaze and she smiled, catching herself at the last minute and reaching for her water glass. Blaine returned his attentions to his food feeling a bit better about the evening.

After that, the chatter returned to more superficial things and Blaine kept catching glimpses of Lucy staring at him. He'd charmed her at least. Perhaps he could drag this out and keep both his mother and grandfather off his back a while longer.

When the Fabray ladies rose to leave, Blaine stood alongside his grandfather and bid them goodnight. Lucy's gaze lingered on him as the gentlemen made plans for meeting in the billiard room and she looked regretful as she followed her mother and the other ladies to the parlor.

As soon as they were out of sight, Blaine turned to his grandfather and said, "I've made plans to meet the Hummels after dinner to tour the boiler room," he said. "Do you gentlemen mind if I take my leave?"

"Why don't you invite them to join us for brandy and cigars first," Mr. Fabray suggested. "I'd love to hear what Mr. Hummel has been up to working with Henry Ford."

Dr. Anderson nodded his agreement, but grabbed Blaine by the sleeve and leaned in close. "You will call on Lucy tomorrow," he said just loud enough for Blaine to hear. "I've already arranged it with Russell and Judith. They're expecting you for tea."

Blaine tugged his sleeve from his grandfather's grip, the only protest he could make, and muttered a terse, "Yes, sir."

As he began to make his way to the Hummels' table, his eyes fell upon Kurt and immediately, Blaine felt his mood shift and lighten. He made a concerted effort to straighten his posture and bring himself up as tall as his five feet, eight inches would allow, wishing somehow that he could correct the freefall of his life so easily, but the sight of Kurt from across the room buoyed his steps and made him wonder if it might be that easy after all.