Chapter 4

Kurt looked up from his coffee to see Blaine approaching their table. His heart hammered in his chest at the sight of him, back straight as an arrow, his pomaded hair glinting in the soft glow of the electric lights.

"Good evening, Mr. Hummel," he said, as expected, greeting the older gentleman first. "Kurt. I hope I'm not interrupting." He glanced around their table and smiled at the Barrows.

"Not at all, Blaine," Burt said.

"I came over to invite you and Kurt to join us for brandy and cigars. Mr. Barrow, you're welcome too, of course."

Blaine glanced furtively at Kurt, who was trying desperately to hide his excitement behind delicate bone china filled with a bitter dark roast. The brief nod in his direction could have been dismissed as a polite acknowledgement, and nothing more, if it hadn't made Kurt's skin feel like it was radiating fire. Warm coffee struck the back of this throat much too abruptly and he coughed to clear it, drawing the attention of the entire table.

"Sorry," Kurt said. "The coffee is getting cold." It was a flimsy excuse, but it turned the attention back to Blaine who was now biting his lip smugly as he fought back a grin.

"Gentlemen, I understand if you already have plans," he said.

"Kurt and I are free," Burt said. "Mr. Barrow?"

Kurt couldn't be sure, but it looked like Mrs. Barrow elbowed her husband in the side just as he was about to speak.

"I promised my wife a stroll along the bayfront," Mr. Barrow replied, wincing. "Perhaps some other time." He looked positively put out that he was unable to hobnob with the Andersons. Kurt was sure Mr. Barrow would give his wife an earful as soon as they were gone.

Blaine waited patiently as the Barrows bid them all goodnight, and Kurt took the opportunity to study Blaine's impeccable dress and flawless carriage. He looked the epitome of a gentleman and Kurt's body practically ached with jealousy. Why couldn't he look as comfortable in his own skin? He'd grown too fast, all gangly limbs and too-big feet, and he still felt out of place in his formal suit, despite its good fit. In an attempt to match Blaine's demeanor, as he stood up he tugged at his waistcoat and straightened his neck, lifting his nose higher and trying to look at ease in his body.

"You look fine," Blaine muttered in Kurt's ear. "Stop fidgeting."

Kurt's breath caught in his throat as he tried not to look at Blaine's face, which was now far nearer than it had been moments ago. His nerves threatened to overtake him even as he wondered why Blaine's presence affected him so heavily.

Blaine didn't say anything more, though, and instead led them all out of the dining room.

"Kurt, are you feeling ill?" his father asked, leaning in so the other gentlemen couldn't hear him. "You look flushed."

"I'm fine," he said. "Just too much sun today."

His father sniffed but seemed to accept the explanation even as Kurt's heart pumped so rapidly in his chest that it threatened to leap from his body and land on the mosaic marble tile at their feet.

"Mr. Hummel," Blaine said. "Kurt tells me you helped rewire the hotel when they upgraded the electrical system last year."

"Indeed I did," Burt replied.

"Perhaps you could give me a tour of the boiler room later."

"I'd be happy to," Burt said. "If you don't think the hotel manager would mind."

"I'm sure he can be persuaded," Blaine said with a chuckle as he approached the bar. "What's your poison, gentlemen?"

"Brandy?" Burt said and Kurt nodded his agreement. He wasn't much of a brandy drinker himself, but he didn't trust his own voice not to betray his excited nerves, so he remained silent and accepted the drink with pleasure.

The group took their drinks and headed toward the smoking room, which was down the hall from the front desk and just across from the barber shop. Kurt had yet to venture down this corridor and he was easily taken by the relaxed atmosphere of this section of the hotel. The very notion seemed at odds with the décor of the building itself — its every corner gilded like a Sultan's bed chamber. This area felt different, masculine and homey, whereas the other rooms felt more like a formal sitting room.

As soon as they entered the oak-paneled room, Blaine steered Kurt toward a man just barely taller than Blaine with a thick mustache and steely gray eyes.

"Grandfather, I'd like you to meet a friend of mine," Blaine said, gesturing to Kurt. "Kurt Hummel, this is my grandfather, Dr. Andrew Anderson."

"Dr. Anderson," Kurt said, holding out his hand in greeting. He hoped his shaking couldn't be seen by the old man as he waited for him to return the gesture, but Kurt was not to receive the reassurance he desired. Dr. Anderson looked down his nose at Kurt and sniffed, forcing Kurt to lower his hand.

Blaine's jaw was slack, but he didn't say anything as he looked from his grandfather to Kurt and back again.

"Blaine, if you'll excuse me, I see Clark Howell over there and I really must say hello. Have a good evening, Mr. Humble."

"It's Hummel," Kurt corrected, even though he knew the old man wouldn't acknowledge him.

"Kurt, I'm sorry about that," Blaine said. "I don't know what has gotten into-"

"Don't worry about it," Kurt said with a half-hearted shrug. "I'm used to it." Dr. Anderson's snub wounded Kurt's pride, but he refused to let it show — least of all to Blaine.

"He shouldn't have been so rude," Blaine insisted.

"I'm fine," Kurt said. When Blaine didn't look convinced, he added, "Truly."

Blaine's expression relaxed some, but as he introduced Kurt to several of his grandfather's friends, each cordial but cool greeting caused Kurt's body to become increasingly stiff and tense. He found himself wishing he could fade into the walls instead of being subjected to yet another round of snobbish scrutiny.

When finally Blaine seemed to have greeted everyone he knew, Kurt left his side. He felt his shoulders relax as he took a seat next to his father, who was already lighting a fat cigar while he made idle conversation with a stout, bespectacled man whom Kurt had never met.

"My wife tells me you went for a stroll today with Mrs. Hudson," the man said.

Burt stiffened at the man's remarks, and glanced quickly at his son. This was the first Kurt heard on the matter, and he wondered who this woman was. He'd not been introduced to anyone named Hudson, and he searched his memory for any of the dozens of women he'd seen, but none had been in the company of his father.

"We uh..." Burt stammered. "That is..."

"It's perfectly acceptable, Burt. Bess says she's been out of mourning for a few months now, and your wife's been gone going on what? A year?"

Burt made eye contact with Kurt this time and said, "John, I don't believe you've met my son. Kurt, this is Mr. John Lowry."

Just then Blaine reappeared at Kurt's side. "John, you gossip just like a woman. Why don't you leave Mr. Hummel alone. No one wants to talk about widows over brandy. We're supposed to boast about our financial prowess and immense superiority over the unwashed masses." He laughed cordially, but Kurt could see the hint of mockery in his eyes and the worry behind his smile when he glanced furtively to Kurt.

Kurt raised his glass to his lips and sipped the amber liquid, letting it roll across his tongue as he savored the bitter sweetness of it. When he swallowed, he noticed Blaine carefully studying his every move.

"Did I do it wrong?" Kurt muttered under his breath.

"What?" Blaine said, furrowing his brow at Kurt before realization dawned on his face. "No! I was just... well, actually, I was watching you savor that brandy."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Kurt said. He glanced nervously at his father, but could see he was deep in conversation with Mr. Lowry again, and so he returned his attentions to Blaine. "Is that wrong? I thought it was meant to be sipped."

"Oh it is," Blaine said, bringing his own glass to his lips. "I've just not seen anyone enjoy brandy like that in a long time."

Something dark and worrisome colored Blaine's features, but Kurt didn't ask what he meant. He simply smiled and took another sip of his drink.

"I enjoyed sailing," Kurt said.

"And the swimming?"

"And the swimming."

"We should do it again," Blaine said. "Or something else... anything." His eyes reflected the color of the brandy and they radiated a warmth that seemed as if it were directed at Kurt alone. Or Kurt 's face felt warm, at any rate. Perhaps it was the brandy. He set his glass down so quickly he almost dropped it.

"Careful," Blaine said, his hand brushing Kurt's as he reached to steady the glass.

Kurt pulled away abruptly and clasped his hands together in his lap, causing Blaine's expression to shift. Kurt wished he hadn't reacted so impulsively, but the sudden contact had startled him, and he wasn't really sure why.

"I'm such a clumsy dolt," Kurt said, picking at his cuticles rather than making eye contact.

"Hardly," Blaine said. "You just need to relax."

Kurt snorted. "And maybe stop drinking coffee after dinner."

"That might help too," Blaine said with a laugh.

"What are your plans for tomorrow?" Blaine asked. "I have to call on a friend in the afternoon, but I'm free before then."

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry, Blaine. I have plans to meet Mr. de Crano," Kurt said. "He's going to teach me painting technique."

"Another time, then," Blaine said. "Perhaps after dinner?"

Blaine pulled his cigarette case from his jacket pocket, and now that they were no longer in the shadows of the orange grove as they had been the night before, Kurt could see that it was an intricately decorated silver case with Blaine's initials emblazoned on the front. Blaine opened it and offered a cigarette to Kurt. He twisted it between his fingers and noticed it was hand-rolled; the tobacco smelled sharp, as if it had just been made. It wasn't uncommon for men of Blaine's stature to roll their own tobacco, and Kurt was certain he had his own personal blend that a shopkeeper kept on hand for him. Kurt either bought his father's cigars or his own machine-rolled cigarettes when he indulged.

As he had the night before, Blaine lit his own cigarette before offering the match to Kurt. Blaine's hand cupped the flame and he leaned in close to light Kurt's cigarette. At close range, Kurt noticed that the skin of Blaine's hand looked soft and touchable like a woman's but his broad palms and slightly tapered fingers suggested an unmistakable masculine strength. He wondered why that fascinated him so.

Kurt sucked in a deep breath as the flame hit the end of the paper and his mouth was filled with the smooth, earthy taste of the tobacco. When he exhaled, his eyes met Blaine's and held them for a moment, just a few recklessly intoxicating seconds, but it felt so much longer, as if the world had stopped — a single heartbeat suspended in time — and there was nothing else in it but eyes the color of afternoon tea in the soft flicker of lamplight.

Someone cleared his throat a few feet away and broke the spell, along with Blaine's hypnotic hold on Kurt.

With a nimble movement of his right wrist, Blaine shook the match to extinguish the flame, but left his other hand resting on the table next to Kurt's elbow. When he pulled back, Blaine's fingertips grazed the stiff fabric of Kurt's dinner jacket, and Kurt felt the brief touch in every part of his body, a phantom of a feeling he couldn't quite identify.

Blaine took a long drag on his cigarette, the muscles in his neck flexing with the inhale. Kurt placed his cigarette between his own lips and did the same, neither of them speaking while the other men in the room chattered raucously around them. Blaine looked at ease but in a different way than he had at the beach earlier that day. Kurt could hardly believe this was the same man who frolicked boyishly at the seaside and waxed poetic about Oscar Wilde. There was no trace of that boy here now; Blaine's demeanor was the very definition of gentlemanly, a well-practiced coupling of dignity and propriety that threatened to steal Kurt's heart from his chest.

Kurt hadn't realized how long the two of them had sat together silently until he heard several of the older gentlemen bidding their dinner companions a good evening. Burt stretched his back and stubbed out his cigar in a pristine brass ashtray next to his chair.

"I think I'm going to head up too. Kurt, are you staying a while longer?"

Kurt glanced at Blaine who didn't look sleepy in the slightest. "Mr. Anderson and I were just about to discuss a book he is reading. I'll be up soon."

Blaine smiled at him, pulling his cigarette between his lips as he extended his hand to Kurt's father. "I promise I won't keep him up too late, Mr. Hummel."

Burt snorted out a laugh. "You boys have fun."

Kurt looked around to find that only a few of the younger gentlemen remained in the smoking room, none of them in the immediate vicinity of himself and Blaine.

"You look troubled, my young Mr. Hummel." Blaine's tone possessed a teasing quality that pulled the corners of Kurt's mouth into a smile without his permission.

"And you look like the cat that got the cream," Kurt said.

"I am insulted," Blaine said, hand to his heart in mock offense. "This is just my normal countenance, I assure you. Nothing untoward."

"Tell that to my freckles."

"Ah yes, I noticed you looking a bit more... spotty than you did at the start of the day. But tell me this," he said, raising his eyebrows and grinning, "wasn't it worth it?"

"I'll let you know when they fade a bit."

"I think it's charming," Blaine said.

Kurt scoffed. "Well it's a good thing I'm trying to charm you, Mr. Anderson. My ability to charm a man should come in quite handy in life." He stubbed out his cigarette and glanced up at Blaine to see a curious expression on his face that if Kurt didn't know better, he'd swear was disappointment.

Blaine shook his head and his expression cleared, a bright smile returning to his face. "Well I'm charmed, nevertheless," he said.

Unsure of what to say next, Kurt blinked at him, but thankfully Blaine spoke first.

"Shall we get another drink?" he asked. "Or my offer for a game of billiards still stands."

"I think I'd like another brandy," Kurt said. "Or perhaps some whiskey."

"A man after my own heart," Blaine said, clapping Kurt on the shoulder smartly. "Whiskey it is!"

Blaine returned from the bar with two glasses and a half-empty bottle of whiskey, to which Kurt raised an eyebrow.

Blaine simply shrugged and said, "I didn't want to have to keep getting up."

Kurt almost said something to him about not imbibing to the point of drunkenness, but when the oaky liquid hit his tongue, his protest was forgotten.

"So tell me about your Rachel," Blaine said, pouring them both another drink and lighting himself another cigarette.

"Rachel," Kurt said. "Where shall I begin?"

"Well you love her, right?" Blaine sipped from his glass and leveled Kurt with a look that felt like a challenge. "Tell me what you love about her."

She was a force to be reckoned with and she had very few friends thanks to an aggressive personality and a selfish nature, and Kurt took it all in stride. But he didn't say any of that, deciding it seemed disloyal to tell a relative stranger all that.

"Of course I love her," Kurt said, avoiding his deeper inquiry for reasons he couldn't explain. "We're getting married aren't we?"

"Are you?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing at all," Blaine replied. "I just noticed you phrased it as a question. I wondered why that is." He smirked as he lifted his glass to his lips once again, and Kurt's annoyance simmered.

Kurt considered his words. He did love Rachel; she was practically family, and he'd known her most of his life. He wanted nothing but good things for her and admired her spirit immensely. He had offered to marry her to save her mother from having to remarry after Mr. Berry had died, and he intended to see it through. The only problem was that when he looked at her, he felt nothing beyond warm affection, and that terrified him. Wasn't love supposed to be this all-encompassing, electric thing? Wasn't that what the poets were all going on about? He glanced back up at Blaine, the color of the whiskey matching his golden eyes, and Kurt's heart fluttered wildly in his chest.

"Blaine Anderson, you're insufferable."

"And yet, here you are again in my company."

Kurt huffed and crossed his arms over his chest, lifting his chin. "Don't flatter yourself," he said. "It's either this or retiring to my room with my father, which, now that I think of it, sounds like the better option. Good evening, Mr. Anderson."

He pushed back his chair and stubbed out his cigarette as he rose. He suddenly felt the effects of the spirits and he wobbled when he stood.

"Easy there," Blaine said, grabbing Kurt by the elbow and pulling him back into his chair.

"I think I should check on my father," Kurt said.

"I think you should have another drink," Blaine said, his eyes wide and pleading as he reached for the bottle.

Kurt nodded, and Blaine poured him another whiskey.

"But just the one," Kurt said, ignoring Blaine's low chuckle as he took his seat again.

Several drinks later, Kurt's head was swimming and the edges of the room had begun to go fuzzy, the scalloped pattern of the molding near the ceiling blurring together into a haze of shapeless colors. He squinted and tried to focus on the hem of his sleeve, but it too had lost detail.

"I think perhaps I'm drunk." Kurt slouched in his chair and closed his eyes. "How do you keep the room from spinning?"

"Don't drink so much," Blaine said with a shrug.

"Oh, that's helpful," Kurt said. He leaned forward and braced himself on the edge of the table as he scooted his chair out and attempted to rise to standing. He only swayed a little, and grabbed Blaine's shoulder for balance. Maybe he gripped it tighter than was absolutely necessary, but it was only because he was unsteady on his feet.

"Do you need some assistance, Mr. Hummel?" Blaine asked, his eyes dancing in the dim light of the smoking room. Kurt thought they looked a bit like honey like that, all sticky sweet and decadent, and if he let himself fall into them, he'd sink like quicksand. He shook his head to clear it more than to decline the offer for help.

"I'm fine," he said, releasing his hold on Blaine's shoulder. "Quite capable." And with that, he swayed and nearly fell back into his chair.

"You're not fine. I'm escorting you to your room, and that's that."

Kurt tried to protest, but his tongue felt thick and woolen; the words wouldn't form. He blinked slowly, staring at Blaine, and let his hand fall to the man's forearm.

"Go ahead and lean on me if you need to," Blaine said, and Kurt complied, leaning his weight into Blaine's deceptively strong body. He could feel the muscles flex beneath his suit, making him feel suddenly warm.

"How aren't you more intoxicated?" Kurt asked, not sure if the words came out in the right order.

Blaine laughed, a deep and pleasant chuckle that Kurt felt in his toes. Whiskey never had that effect on him. He reasoned it must be a stronger proof than he was used to back home, or maybe Mr. Hamish was watering it down at Kurt's favorite bar. He was always doing silly stuff like that to Kurt, treating him like a child and insisting he'd never look grown up, no matter how many years had passed.

"No, I'm serious," Kurt said, halting his steps and nearly tripping Blaine in the process. "You had just as much to drink as me."

"Ah, but I'm used to it, young Mr. Hummel. I'm a villainous cad, remember? I bathe in gin and slip whiskey in my coffee when no one is looking."

"Do you really?" Kurt said as the room spun around him. Or was it the hallway? No, they were definitely in the hallway now. How had they gotten here?

Blaine laughed again, tugging on Kurt's jacket. "Let's get you upstairs, Kurt. Your father will hate me for being a bad influence on you."

"Pssh, it was just a little whiskey," Kurt said. "He drinks it all the time."

"All the same, I'd like to get you upstairs safe and sound. Come along."

"Slave driver," Kurt muttered under his breath. But he let himself be dragged along, pointing out various turns for Blaine to get him to his room.

Just as they reached the fourth floor landing, Kurt's balance gave out and he tripped on the last stair, sending himself careening into Blaine, who barely caught him before they were both catapulted down the stairs. They landed in a heap at the bottom of the short flight, midway between floors.

"I've got you," Blaine said.

Kurt's heart raced as he tried to recover his footing, but it seemed every effort he made sent him toppling back into Blaine.

"Oh goodness," Kurt said. "I'm terribly sorry." He finally got himself propped on an elbow and looked down at Blaine, who was barely biting back laughter. "What?"

"Just... this," Blaine said, gesturing between them. "We must look ridiculous."

Kurt looked back and forth between them, their legs intertwined, Blaine's shirtfront bunched and coming out the front of his waistcoat. He could feel his hair flopping down over his forehead and Blaine's curls were coming loose. Kurt began to laugh, loudly.

Blaine tried to silence him with a hand over his mouth, but Kurt only laughed louder.

"Shh, you'll wake the entire hotel," Blaine insisted.

Kurt tried to calm his laughter and looked down at Blaine, his right hand still covering the lower half of Kurt's face.

"You have such wonderful eyes," Blaine said suddenly. "Like the sea after a storm."

Kurt opened his mouth to say, "So do you," when he realized what he had almost done. Instead, he muttered a quiet "thank you," and in spite of his drunken state, somehow found his way to his feet easily.

Blaine managed to get to his feet as well and brushed off his pants, that apart from being wrinkled, looked just as dashing and well-tailored as they had at the start of the evening.

"Your shirt is coming loose," Kurt said, pointing at Blaine's waist.

He tugged his waistcoat down and smiled up at Kurt in a way that made him giggle. The whiskey had still not left his system, then. He felt himself sway again and reached for the railing, missing it by a good six inches. Blaine gripped his elbow so firmly that Kurt let out a yelp of pain.

"Sorry," Blaine said. "Steady now."

They climbed the last flight of stairs and set off down the hallway, quieter than before. Kurt could see the tension in Blaine's shoulders and longed to find a way to make him relax again. He wanted to see the bright smile that had greeted him at the shore that afternoon.

"I'm just not used to compliments," Kurt blurted suddenly.

"Beg your pardon?"

"What you said about my eyes. I wasn't sure how to take that."

"I'm sorry if I offended you, Kurt."

"You didn't."

They continued on in silence for a moment, but Blaine seemed more relaxed by the time they reached the Hummels' suite.

Kurt patted his pockets in search of his key, hoping he had remembered to pick it up off the desk before they went down to dinner. He felt his cigarettes and a small book of matches, and a pencil he kept in his jacket pocket in case he ever had the urge to sketch, before finally his fingers wrapped around a small metal object in his waistcoat pocket.

"Aha!"

He quietly turned the key in the lock and let them both inside. The fire was low, but the lights in the sitting area were still on. The door to Burt's room was closed, and Kurt could hear faint snoring coming from inside.

"He's asleep," Kurt said, trying not to giggle, even though he couldn't decide what exactly was so funny about it anyway.

"Let's get you to bed," Blaine said, shoving him toward the other bedroom.

They stumbled through the doorway and Kurt practically fell onto the bed, bringing Blaine with him. The giggling began again as Blaine tried to untangle himself from Kurt, but he had started laughing too and it was all Kurt could do to keep from laughing so loudly he'd wake his father.

"Shhhh."

"I think my watch chain is stuck on your waistcoat," Blaine whispered.

"So take it off."

"I can't. I'll break the chain."

"Not your watch, silly," Kurt said, his hand flailing a bit haphazardly between them. "My waistcoat." He dropped his head back on the bed and closed his eyes, willing the room to stop spinning.

"Your... w-waistcoat?" Blaine stammered.

But Kurt didn't respond. He was floating hazily and wanted nothing more than to sleep. He tried to say something else to Blaine, and thought he got a reply, but he didn't know what it was.

The next thing he was aware of was his father clearing his throat and a splitting headache.

"Ahem."

It was louder than before.

Kurt scrubbed his hand across his face and let it land on his chest. He was still wearing his starched shirt from the night before, his waistcoat open and his jacket missing. He propped himself up on shaky arms and squinted at his father. Thankfully the thick curtains were drawn over the windows, but the light in the room still seemed just a little too bright.

"Someone had a late night," Burt said.

Kurt's head throbbed as he tried to remember. He recalled Blaine offering him another whiskey; they talked about Rachel and then... then...

He heard a muffled groan from beside him and nearly jumped out of his skin when the blanket moved. A dark head of hair popped up from the pillow beside him and a warm hand grazed his arm as he came face to face with a very groggy and quite disheveled Blaine Anderson.

"Blaine!"

"Mmm...Kurt, it's too early to be so loud. You'll wake your father."

"His father is awake," Burt said.

With that Blaine shot up in bed. The force must have started his head throbbing too because he grabbed his forehead and groaned.

"Mr. Hummel," he said, eyes wide and looking more awake then. "I'm so sorry. I offered to bring Kurt up because he was a little tipsy and I must have fallen asleep after I put him to bed and–"

Burt dismissed Blaine's words with a wave of his hand and said, "It's perfectly fine, Blaine, but I think you should get back to your grandfather's house. I'm sure he's noticed by now that you didn't come home last night."

"Damn it all!" Blaine said. He winced and then turned to Kurt. "Sorry."

Burt chuckled and shook his head. "Kurt, please be dressed for breakfast in twenty minutes. Some coffee might help that headache."

Kurt was still too confused to respond, so he simply nodded, which made his head throb anew. As Blaine rushed about finding his shoes and jacket, Kurt took in the state of his own clothing. His jacket was fine; Blaine had draped it over a chair, but his shirt and waistcoat would need to be pressed, along with his trousers. He sighed and let his head fall back on the pillow.

"Do you remember anything from last night?" Blaine asked, pulling a sock up his leg as he tried to find its mate. He looked a little harried, probably because his grandfather would be cross with him for staying out all night.

"A little," Kurt said. "Thank you for getting me back here."

"My pleasure," Blaine said, looking a little more relaxed when he smiled at him.

At that moment, Burt appeared in the doorway again. "Blaine, I forgot to mention, there was a message for me last night. Mr. Knott said I could give a tour of the boiler room and dynamos today after breakfast if you're still interested."

"That sounds splendid," he said. "I'll mention it to my grandfather."

"Wonderful," Burt said. "Kurt, are you going to get out of bed?" He tried to look stern, but his eyes were playful.

Kurt threw back the covers and planted his feet on the floor, which must have satisfied his father because he left the two young men alone again.

"Are you going to be in any trouble?" Kurt asked.

"Not the real kind."

Kurt tilted his head, confused by Blaine's phrasing.

"He'll lecture me about propriety and good manners over breakfast and then head to the hospital to make his rounds. I'll be off the hook before midday."

Blaine's nonchalance looked forced, but Kurt didn't press the issue.

"I'll see you in a little bit," Blaine said, and then he was gone.

Kurt hurried to dress himself, and tried his best to ignore the throbbing behind his eyes. He wondered if the drug store on the corner sold his favorite headache powder, but quickly realized he would have no time to visit the shop; he could hear his father pacing in the sitting room.

"I'm coming," he called and set about finding a morning suit.

When he was dressed, he laid his evening suit out for the maid to press and headed down to the dining room with his father. The Barrows were already seated at their table when they arrived.

"Good morning," Mrs. Barrow greeted.

"Hello," Burt replied. Kurt grunted — not the most polite response, but it was all he could manage at the moment.

He gestured for the waiter to fill his coffee cup and ordered some eggs and dry toast. It was all he could think to eat the way his stomach was rolling.

"Someone looks like he had an eventful evening," Mr. Barrow said. He laughed raucously at his own joke as his wife jabbed him in the arm.

"Did you drink spirits?" Mrs. Barrow inquired gently. "I always get dreadfully sick the next day when I drink spirits." She nearly whispered it, actually, as if it were a secret to be kept.

"Whiskey," Kurt replied, and Mrs. Barrow's eyes went wide.

"Like a common factory worker," Mr. Barrow sniffed.

Burt looked at his son sternly, but Kurt was too concerned with his coffee to care. Let them judge him. It didn't matter.

"When I left you were drinking brandy," his father muttered.

"I detest brandy," Kurt said. "And Blaine asked me what I wanted. I like whiskey."

"Just be careful, Kurt. You shouldn't be getting tipsy in public like that."

"I was with Blaine," he said.

"And he was drunk as well," Burt replied.

Kurt couldn't deny that. Blaine had somehow ended up in his bed, and while there was nothing wrong with that, he didn't think it was entirely appropriate for a gentleman to be out all night.

"Should I make my apologies to his grandfather?"

"Let Blaine handle his own affairs," Burt said.

"Yes, it's always best for a gentleman to fight his own battles," Mr. Barrow said in between greasy mouthfuls of eggs and bacon. "You shouldn't get involved."

Kurt resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Mr. Barrow was inserting his nose where it didn't belong, but he had been foolish enough to start the conversation in front of him. Kurt only had himself to blame.

"Father, I don't think I told you, but Mr. de Crano is going to teach me painting technique this afternoon."

"Oh, his landscapes are exquisite," Mrs. Barrow interjected.

Mr. Barrow snorted at his wife's effusion. "She thinks needlepoint is art," he said, shoveling even more eggs between his puffy lips.

Kurt wanted to sew his mouth shut and let him gag on his breakfast. "All handiwork is art, Mr. Barrow," he said.

He earned a snort for his comment as Mr. Barrow followed his eggs with a large slurp of coffee.

"My son is a tailor," Burt said. "And everything he creates is a work of art." The defensive tone in his voice caused Kurt to look up from his coffee in surprise. His father had never come to his defense before. He had always insisted that Kurt learn a more reliable trade. Dressmaking was a dream; engineering was a living.

"I thought you said he was going to work at Edison with you?" Mr. Barrow said.

Kurt gaped at them both as his father simply shrugged.

"He can do as he likes," Burt said. "He's a grown man."

"Father?"

"Kurt, your mother wanted you to follow your dream. I won't stand in the way."

Kurt could feel the tears beginning to well up behind his eyes, but he blinked them back. He refused to let Mr. Barrow see him cry.

"We should get going, Kurt. The Andersons will be waiting for us."

"The Andersons?" Mr. Barrow said, a thick eyebrow raised in question.

"Yes," Burt said, obviously enjoying the other man's envy. "I promised them a personal tour of the boiler room and facilities. If you'll excuse us."

With that, Burt stood and nodded to the Barrows. A stunned Kurt took a moment to get to his feet, nearly tugging the tablecloth with him as he stood.

"We'll see you at dinner," he said and followed his father to the lobby.

Burt was at the foot of the stairs, pacing and muttering to himself.

"That insufferable, pompous –"

"Pop..." Kurt interrupted.

Burt halted at the childish nickname and ran a hand across his head where his hair was nearly gone. It was a gesture Kurt had grown fond of over the years, a motion that was definitively his father, and it was familiar in a way that warmed his heart.

"What?"

"Did you really mean that?" Kurt asked.

"About John Barrow being an insufferable nitwit?"

"About me being a dressmaker."

"Oh... yes."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Burt pulled out his pocket watch and wound it, even though Kurt knew it didn't need it. Burt Hummel had wound his watch every morning before he attached the chain to its button for as long as Kurt could remember.

"Father?"

He sighed heavily, fixing Kurt with a steady gaze.

"Look, when your mother died I wondered if things would ever be right again."

Kurt felt the tears threaten to spill again, but he didn't fight it as much now that he was alone with his father.

"But then you made that dress for Rachel when she sang at the hospital benefit last month, and I saw how excited everyone was — dying to know who had made it." He reached up and wiped a stray tear, one of only a few Kurt had seen him shed since Elizabeth had died. "It's your calling, Kurt. I can't stand in the way of that."

"I don't know what to say."

"Then don't say anything and hug your old man."

It wasn't something they did much anymore, but Kurt couldn't resist falling into his father's arms when he held them open for him. He allowed himself to be wrapped in familiar comfort and inhaled the scent of tobacco and coffee that seemed to always linger around Burt's body.

"I love you," he whispered into his father's lapels, feeling five years old and ancient all at once. The last time his father had held him like this, he'd been about a foot shorter. It felt odd to stand eye to eye with someone who had once looked so large.

"Kurt, you're going to make me proud no matter what. You know that, right?"

He pulled back and nodded, wiping the dampness from his eyes. They were causing a scene in the busy lobby, and he knew his father cared about that, even if he might not admit it.

Kurt looked up just in time to see Blaine entering the lobby through the carriage way entrance. His face lit up when he made eye contact, his all-over smile had the effect of making him look so much younger than his 25 years, and Kurt's heart raced.

Suddenly Kurt was reminded of the way he'd reacted to his friend Matthew, whom he'd met during his last two years of school. The boys had become friends when they found they both enjoyed singing in choir together, and whenever Kurt was around him, his heart fluttered madly. Kurt always assumed it had been a reaction to finally having a close friend, and he never considered what it meant. But now that he was reacting to Blaine similarly, he wondered if it wasn't something else entirely. Eventually Kurt and Matthew had drifted apart, and he hadn't thought of his old friend again until now. He still wasn't sure of what to make of his reaction to Blaine, but he didn't have time to contemplate it at that moment because Blaine was approaching them rapidly.

Blaine reached up to straighten his tie and squared his shoulders as he crossed the lobby to where Kurt and Burt were standing.

"Good morning, Mr. Hummel," he said to Burt, but he maintained eye contact with Kurt.

"Hello again," Burt replied.

"Where's your grandfather?" Kurt said, forgoing pleasantries in the wake of his nerves.

"He sends his regards, but he had patients to see this morning," Blaine said. "So unfortunately it's just me."

"I don't see that as a negative," Kurt said.

Blaine's eyebrows shot up as Kurt smirked. He liked shocking Blaine and drawing out the boyish charm he had seen at the beach the previous day. Blaine seemed so bored all the time and anything was a welcome change to the surly demeanor he usually held around his grandfather.

Blaine continued to look at Kurt, his eyes dancing in a glorious suspended moment of teasing that reminded Kurt of the night before when he had knocked Blaine over on the stairs leading to the fourth floor.

Kurt's face felt suddenly warm, but he couldn't draw his eyes away.

"We're sorry your grandfather couldn't make it," Burt said, breaking them both out of the moment – they had somehow been staring again. "Shall we start the tour?"

Kurt cast his gaze toward the floor. Certainly blushing and flirting like a coquettish woman wasn't an appropriate way to react to the situation, and he was grateful for his father's interruption to remind him of that. It wasn't as if Blaine was making his intentions known in front of his father – or at all. Kurt cleared his throat and straightened his tie out of habit.

Burt led them through the carriage way and into the back of the building that housed the artists' studios. They stepped into a cavernous room that held four large boilers that powered the hotel's electricity, towering over them and whirring to beat the band.

"So you know the Ponce is the first public building in Florida to be wired for electric lights?" Kurt asked, beaming with pride for his father's work.

"I didn't know that, no," Blaine replied.

Kurt nodded excitedly as his father continued.

"These four boilers are fed by nearly eight tons of coal per day," Burt said, gesturing at the hulking machines around them. "Each of them is over one hundred horsepower and that produces all the steam needed to drive the dynamos that light up the hotel. Last year when we upgraded all of this, Mr. Flagler spent one hundred thousand dollars replacing the fifty thousand feet of insulated wiring."

"The hotel has more than five thousand light bulbs," Kurt added, " and it's one of the largest installations of electricity in America. Isn't that right, father?"

Burt nodded as Kurt beamed at him, causing Blaine to smile as well.

"Now the hotel system is looking to set up an electrical plant for the entire city, but they're meeting resistance. So for now, Mr. Edison's dynamos will have to do."

"There's also an artesian well powering a generator — ten million gallons of water a day pass over a turbine water wheel and operates the dynamos."

"That's truly amazing," Blaine said, looking suddenly in awe of the massive scale of it all. Kurt wondered if Blaine had taken for granted the availability of electricity in New York, and perhaps seeing this hotel in the middle of a small town being powered through sheer force of will and manmade engineering had altered his viewpoint.

Blaine smiled at him then and it did nothing but spur Kurt's curiosity more. He only half listened to the rest of his father's tour — most of which he had memorized — as he considered the peculiar feelings Blaine had spurred within him.

After the tour, Kurt and his father had lunch in the dining room with the Barrows as was their routine, only this time, Kurt hurried to finish his meal so that he could change into something more suitable for painting. He rushed to their fourth floor room and back again, crashing through the door to Felix de Crano's studio and nearly toppling a large canvas in his wake.

"Ah, young Mr. Hummel, you're right on time."

"Mr. de Crano, such a pleasure to see you again."

Kurt held out his hand, but the painter did not take it. Instead, he tilted his head and studied Kurt for a moment.

"Something is different about you," he said finally. "Your eyes are happier."

"I beg your pardon," Kurt said, feeling utterly confused.

"No, it's there," de Crano said. "Something has changed since yesterday. A young lady?"

Kurt knitted his brow in deep confusion. "Mr. de Crano—"

"Felix," the painter corrected.

"Felix," Kurt replied, growing more infuriated by the moment. "I'm engaged to be married. I assure you there is no young lady other than my fiancé, and she's back in New York."

The painter shrugged, running his hand over his thick beard.

"My apologies," he said. "Perhaps I misjudged the reason, but you're definitely happier. I know happy. It shows in the eyes; you can't hide it."

"My mother used to say that," Kurt said, his frustration dissipating as the memories took over.

"Your mother is a wise woman. You should listen to her."

"She passed away."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Felix said, looking genuinely empathetic.

Kurt shrugged. "It's been almost a year."

"There's no time limit on grief," he said before pausing and considering Kurt's face again. "Although, I think your period of mourning is almost up." He smiled to himself, and when Kurt didn't respond, pointed at Kurt's face and said, "happy eyes."

Kurt chuckled, wondering if the old man had started on his evening brandy early. "I believe you agreed to show me some painting technique," Kurt prompted.

"So it's to be a change of subject then," de Crano said. "Very well, my young friend. We shall discuss painting technique, and you shall continue to deny what we both know to be true."

"What's that?"

"That you've fallen in love."

Kurt felt as though a blow had been struck to his ribcage, his breath leaving his body in a rush.

"I'm sorry?"

"I know," he said, waving a dismissive hand in Kurt's direction. "You don't want to talk about it, but it's there."

Kurt considered the man's words. Was he more in love with Rachel than he'd been the day before? He hadn't even gotten another letter from her, and he'd met no other women since he last visited with the painter. The only person he'd spent any significant amount of time with in the last two days was Blaine.

Kurt glanced up at Mr. de Crano and noticed he had a bright streak of green paint running down the left side of his beard. Kurt had to bite his tongue to keep from giggling at the sight. He looked positively ridiculous.

Perhaps the old man is just growing senile, Kurt considered and deciding there was nothing to be found in his words but the barely lucid ramblings of a lonely old man trying to make conversation. The change de Crano saw in Kurt was simply a change in complexion — freckled and rosy from spending the previous afternoon in the sun — nothing more. Once Kurt's conclusion was made, he exhaled, letting relief wash over him.

"Here, Kurt, you take this brush and I show you how to make dozens of beautiful flowers faster than God himself can grow them."

Kurt smiled and took the brush from Mr. de Crano's hand.

"So sure of yourself," he replied. "Should I buy bigger hats for when my head grows as large as yours?"

"First you paint," de Crano said. "Then you boast."

Kurt chuckled, lifting the brush in the air to mimic the movements de Crano was demonstrating.

"No, no, no... not like that," he said, flicking his wrist quickly. "Like this." He slowed his hand down and moved the brush in a sweeping fashion.

Kurt tried again and earned a smile from the man.

"Now we try it with paint."