Kurt blinked, but his eyelids felt heavy and weak; he could barely lift them, and when he did he had difficulty focusing on the shapes and colors around him. Everything was in a fog, especially his brain. And he kept imagining Blaine reciting the Jabberwocky poem.

" 'Twas brillig and the slithy toves," Kurt muttered.

"What?" a voice replied.

Kurt turned his head toward the sound, but he couldn't focus on the shape. It was a blur of beige and black and the edges were fuzzy, like a thick wool blanket.

"Beware the jabberwock, my son."

"Kurt?"

He knew that voice.

Another familiar beige and black shape was there when he awoke again, but this time, it sounded like it was crying. It shook and shook and then was silent.

Dorian shouldn't be made to cry, he thought. He's far too pretty for that.

Kurt tried to speak, say something to soothe the crying thing, but the words wouldn't come. His tongue felt thick, his lips dry and cracked.

He drifted.

The next thing Kurt remembered was a throbbing behind his eyes, an incessant thump, thump, thump of staccato pain as a bright light tried to burrow behind his eyelids and crack open his skull with its maddening existence.

He just wanted to sleep, but his body felt stiff and his limbs weak.

Kurt tried to move his arm, but found it immobilized underneath the weight of a rumpled lump of fabric. No, not just fabric. The lump was warm and breathing, and it had dark, wavy hair and smelled of tobacco.

There was something familiar about it.

"Blaine?"

The word was out of his mouth before the thought fully formed, and the sound that came out of his mouth was raspy and tremulous, but it was most definitely his voice.

Blaine didn't move, but Kurt knew it was him. Kurt glanced around the room, again noticing how bright it was. It wasn't his room at the Ponce. Where was he?

Kurt craned his neck in an effort to see more of his stark surroundings, but all he could see was white, and his eyes were still unable to focus because everything was so bright. A small figure appeared at his side, and he could just make out her white apron and cap against the darker colors of her dress and hair – a nurse, his mind supplied.

"Mr. Hummel, you're awake," the nurse said, sounding utterly shocked.

Kurt tried to nod or say hello, but the weight of his own head seemed too much for him, and he just blinked at her.

"Don't try to talk," she said. "You've been out of it for days. Mr. Anderson here barely left your side."

Kurt tried to turn his head to face Blaine, but to no avail. He was trapped in his own body. What had happened to him? He was dying to ask the nurse, but she was busy puttering about and making a fuss over him, checking his temperature, inspecting his skin and eyes.

"You must be thirsty," she said. "I'll fetch you some water."

And then she was gone.

Kurt lifted his hand, but it only got a few inches off the mattress before it dropped to his side again. He wanted to wake Blaine, but he couldn't will his body to cooperate, his hand falling again and again as he tried to lift it.

"Blaine," he said, his voice barely a whisper, not nearly loud enough to wake him.

The nurse soon returned with some water and helped to angle Kurt's head up so he could drink. Swallowing took every effort he had, but the cool liquid felt divine on his tongue and he lapped at it hungrily.

She eased his head back onto the pillow and pulled the sheet tight around him. Blaine still didn't stir. Kurt glanced at him forlornly, but didn't have the strength to ask the nurse to wake him.

"Get some rest," she said, patting his arm. "I'll be back to check on you in a bit."

When she was gone, Kurt tried again to lift his arm, but it was in vain; he was too weakened to manage it, and as his head began to feel foggy again, he started to drift once more. Even as he fought unconsciousness, he wished Blaine would awaken so he could catch a glimpse of his golden eyes and warm smile.

It was another day before Kurt regained consciousness long enough to converse with anyone, and when he awoke, Blaine was there.

"Look who decided to wake up," Blaine said. His eyes were bloodshot and his face worn, but he looked positively perfect to Kurt.

"You're here," Kurt said.

"Of course I am," Blaine replied, his smile growing wider by the moment. "Where else would I be?"

Kurt's eyes darted around the room, and only when he decided they were quite alone, he spoke in a low voice.

"But your grandfather... the Fabrays... everyone will talk."

Blaine scoffed. "Let them. I wanted to be with you."

"Blaine, we must be careful."

"You nearly died."

"But I didn't," Kurt insisted. He still didn't know what had happened to him; the last thing he remembered was Blaine visiting him in his room at the Ponce. "You were reading to me," he muttered.

"Kurt, that was five days ago," Blaine said. "You collapsed when your fever came back and they brought you here. You've been under quarantine."

"Then how did you–"

"Dr. Smith is a family friend," Blaine replied with a shrug.

"But your grandfather..."

"I really don't want to talk about him right now," Blaine said, his voice firm. "We'll sort it all out later."

Blaine's tone told Kurt to tread carefully, but he was desperately worried about how this all might look. He didn't want people talking about him, but especially not about Blaine... or heaven forbid, his father.

"Where is my father?"

"He went back to the hotel last night on Dr. Smith's orders. I can fetch him for you if you'd like."

Blaine leaned forward and began to stand, but Kurt reached out and laid a hand softly on his arm.

"In a minute," Kurt said.

"I should send word to your father that you're awake."

"Just... stay with me for a moment. Let me look at you."

Blaine's eyes crinkled around the edges as he smiled and blinked back the tears that had begun to pool in his eyes.

"Of course."

Kurt smiled, trying to stop himself from crying. "So tell me what I missed," he said.

"Well, Mrs. Usina had a bouncing baby boy last night..."

"Haven't you left the hospital at all?"

"His name is Michael."

"Blaine," Kurt said, furrowing his brow.

Blaine looked down at his hands, where he had bitten the nails to the quick, and shrugged.

"I didn't want to leave you, Kurt." When he looked up, his wide eyes were brimming with tears. "And when Dr. Smith said you might not make it through the night, well... I just couldn't."

Kurt gripped his hand tightly and squeezed.

"I'm okay," he said.

Blaine reached up and wiped a stray tear from his own cheek.

"Don't you ever scare me like that again," he said, trying to sound stern and failing as he broke into uneven laughter that made Kurt smile.

"I promise," Kurt said, wishing, not for the first time, that he could kiss his lover in public as they stared into each other's eyes.

The silence was broken by Kurt's stomach gurgling loudly, which caused them both to laugh again.

"Shall I fetch the nurse?" Blaine asked. "Tell her you're positively ravenous and to bring the whole cow?"

"Maybe some broth to start with," a woman's voice said from the doorway.

Kurt released Blaine's hand and turned to see a petite nurse with light brown hair and a kind smile.

"I'll just... go fetch your father," Blaine said nervously, and bowed to the nurse before exiting the room.

Kurt reluctantly watched him go, but he was looking forward to see his father; he knew how Burt worried.

"Good morning," the nurse said brightly, as she felt Kurt's forehead and checked his eyes. "You're looking quite chipper. How are you feeling?"

"Tired," Kurt said. "A little woozy, but I'm alive."

"And thank the Lord for that," she replied. "Dr. Smith should be in soon to examine you, but in the meantime, I'll get you something to eat. Just take it easy, okay?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Kurt turned his head toward the open window to his left, and he could hear the sounds of the busy street outside. The smell of the sea wafted toward him as he inhaled deeply, suddenly remembering the hospital was quite close to the bay. His bones ached and his limbs felt weak, but otherwise, he felt good. He felt so alive... and so lucky, although it had little to do with regaining his health. Waking to find Blaine at his bedside, fretting over him as one does with a lover, was worth any illness, even though he hated to make Blaine worry so.

He lay like that for a while, drifting and listening to the birds calling outside, the gentle clamor of carriages and pedestrians passing by. The blue sky peering in painted a glorious backdrop for a beautiful day, and soon he would be out and enjoying it again with Blaine.

A gentle sob from the doorway captured his attention, and he turned to see his dad standing there, tears in his eyes.

"Hi, Pop."

"Well, you're awake," Burt said, "but if you're still calling me Pop I know you're not quite yourself yet."

It hurt a little to laugh, but seeing his father's bright, grateful smile was worth it. Kurt propped himself up on his pillows as best he could and watched as the nurse nudged Burt's shoulder to ease him into the room. He looked reluctant to approach, as if Kurt might disappear if he got too close.

"It's okay," the nurse said. "His fever broke. Quarantine's been lifted."

Burt nodded, gripping the brim of his hat tightly in his hands.

"You're going to ruin the brim if you keep doing that," Kurt said, causing Burt to look down in surprise, as if he hadn't expected to see the hat there. He set it on the table next to Kurt's bed and took the seat Blaine had occupied earlier that morning.

"Where's Blaine?"

Burt inhaled sharply at the mention of the man's name. "He went home to get cleaned up," he said, his jaw set tightly as he spoke. "I told him it was best if he took care of his obligations now that you're awake."

"The nurse said he hasn't left my side."

"Only to sleep... The doctors wouldn't let me in until yesterday when they thought you might not make it," Burt said, pausing to give Kurt a reproachful glance. "I just hope the folks at the hotel don't get wind of it."

"Why should that matter?" Kurt asked.

Burt's face was a solid mask of fatherly concern, his eyes awash in sympathy, but his jaw firm.

"Kurt, it's not appropriate for him to stand vigil at your bedside."

"Because he's a man or because he's wealthy?"

"Because you're engaged," Burt said solemnly. "It's not fair to Rachel."

"This has nothing to do with Rachel," Kurt replied. "Blaine and I are friends."

Kurt could see that his father did not believe his lie, but he did not refute Kurt's claim of friendship. He simply sighed and continued.

"Whatever you are, it only takes a little talk to ruin one's reputation."

"And are people talking?" Kurt asked, lifting his chin a little in defiance, even though they were alone.

"Not yet," Burt replied, but at his son's haughty expression, added, "but you know how precarious our situation is, and there is also Blaine's reputation to consider."

"He doesn't seem to mind."

"Nevertheless, I think you mind, and Kurt... I just don't want to see you get hurt."

"Father, I'm more than capable of taking care of myself."

"I know you are, but soon you'll have a family of your own to consider." He paused, holding Kurt's eye contact firmly. "And one day Blaine will too."

Kurt's heart clenched unexpectedly at that. He knew that Blaine would need to marry, and soon, but knowing did nothing to quell the wave of regret cresting over him as reality nipped at his heels.

"I think he's set to propose to Miss Fabray," Kurt muttered weakly and turned his head away from his father's watchful gaze. Kurt didn't want him to see the heartache written so plainly on his face.

"That seems to be the plan," Burt replied, following Kurt's gaze out the open window.

They sat in silence for a moment, Kurt assuming that neither of them knew what to say. Whether his father was certain of the true nature of his relationship with Blaine seemed to be irrelevant to the matter at hand. This was about status and appearances, and the pretense would have to be maintained, regardless of the truth. They both knew it, and there was nothing more to say.

By the next morning, Kurt was well enough to leave the hospital, and that afternoon he sat wrapped in a thick blanket, watching Blaine conversing politely with the Fabrays. He looked the picture of decorum and good breeding, especially with Quinn on his arm. She wore a delightful summery dress with puffed sleeves, which had become the fashion recently, but Kurt thought they made the women look as if they could barely fit through doors. Still, the style suited her, and in her trademark pink, made her blonde hair and fair skin look positively radiant. If Blaine had been interested in the charms of women, Kurt supposed he would have been quite pleased to have Quinn Fabray on his arm.

"You look troubled, my friend."

Kurt glanced up to see Felix de Crano standing to his left, a smudge of indigo paint just barely visible under the edge of his hat.

"Good afternoon, Felix," he said in greeting. "I think I'm still tired from the fever."

The painter nodded, and took the empty chair to Kurt's right. The hotel had decorated its lawn in brightly colored paper lanterns and erected a stage in honor of the upcoming cake walk. Several guests were already milling about, enjoying iced tea and finger sandwiches under the shade of the trees.

"I'm glad to see you out and about," de Crano said, leaning back in his chair and fanning his face with his hat. His beard wafted in the self-made breeze, leaving Kurt to wonder what the old man looked like without whiskers.

"The doctor thought it best if I got some fresh air," Kurt said.

"Aren't you warm in that blanket?"

"He insisted I stay bundled until I'm back to full form," Kurt said, pausing to take a deep breath before continuing, "which is ridiculous considering it must be at least 70 degrees out."

"Is he here?"

Kurt's eyes darted to Blaine, who was laughing brightly, his hand placed lightly over Quinn's gloved one where it rested in the crook of his elbow.

"Is who here?"

"Your doctor."

Kurt glanced back to de Crano, tilting his head in inquiry.

"I'm not sure I understand."

"If he's not here, who's to scold you?"

"Fair point," Kurt said with a laugh as he dropped the blanket from around his shoulders. He was still dressed in a heavy overcoat and dark trousers, more than warm enough for the mild temperatures.

Kurt still felt weak, but the sunlight felt good on his face where it broke through the trees and warmed his skin in gentle patches. The doctor had said it would be a while before he felt one hundred percent, but Kurt was just grateful to be out of bed and enjoying the fresh air.

The cakewalk would begin soon and the garden was quickly filling up with hotel guests – ladies dressed in lightweight cotton and lace; gentlemen dressed in brightly colored afternoon suits. It was always Kurt's favorite part of any event the hotel hosted. He had written Rachel that very morning – firstly to assure her he was feeling well and on the mend, but also to recount the new fashions he'd seen. Rachel was reticent to wear the large, billowy sleeves that Miss Fabray had embraced, but Kurt assured her he could make an acceptable alteration that would fit her tiny frame.

He had just noticed a woman in a style he thought Rachel might like when Blaine appeared in his peripheral vision.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Hummel," he said. "You look like you're feeling better."

His smile was practically effulgent as he spoke, and Kurt shifted self-consciously in his seat. He glanced around furtively, hoping no one saw the clear excitement in Blaine's face. A pair of piercing green eyes caught his from across the courtyard; Quinn Fabray was watching both men intently.

"May I sit?" Blaine inquired, greeting Felix with a warm smile and handshake.

"You're sure Miss Fabray won't mind?" Kurt asked, tilting his head slightly in her direction.

Blaine's body stiffened as he glanced over his shoulder and waved at her before returning his attentions to Kurt.

"She'll be alright for a moment. I wanted to see how you were getting on now that the doctor has obviously cleared you for leisure activities."

Kurt, twisting his hands in his lap nervously, hoped Felix hadn't heard the obvious flirtatious tone in Blaine's words. Casting a brief glance to the painter, Kurt saw him smirking at the clearly besotted expression on Blaine's face. Kurt only fidgeted more.

"Gentlemen, I hate to be rude, but I see someone I must speak to," Felix said, rising from his seat and tipping his hat to them.

When he had gone, Kurt turned to Blaine.

"You need to be more careful," he said.

"Oh, he's just an old man," Blaine replied blithely, ignoring Kurt's obvious concern.

"And Quinn?"

"She'll be fine," Blaine said, his brow furrowing as he examined Kurt's face. "What has gotten into you?"

"I'm just not quite myself yet."

"Well, you look much better."

Kurt glanced over to see Blaine's affections practically bubbling up through his eyes. Had he completely forgotten himself?

"Blaine, you really shouldn't," he said, hoping Blaine would understand his meaning. When he received no acknowledgement, he added, "We're in public."

"I know where we are," Blaine huffed. He turned away from Kurt and squinted into the sun, taking his handkerchief from his pocket and wiping the sweat from his brow. "When can I see you again?" he asked without turning in Kurt's direction. "When will you be well enough to visit me? My grandfather comes home next week."

"I think you should propose to her," Kurt said suddenly.

Blaine's head snapped around and he was unable to hide the utter shock on his face. Kurt bowed his head to study his hands as he began wringing them in his lap.

"What brought that on?"

"It's time," Kurt said, refusing to elaborate.

"What if I decided I don't want to?"

"We both know you don't have a choice," Kurt said, picking at the pills on the blanket still loosely draped around his lower half. He could feel sweat pooling behind his knees, and he wanted to stand, get out of this place, but he knew his limbs were still weak. He would need to wait for his father to come push his wheeled chair back into the hotel.

"You were the one who said I had a choice," Blaine said, sounding defeated.

Kurt couldn't bear to look at him. He shrugged. "Things change."

"What changed?"

"Me. Us... Everything."

He sighed and dropped his head back on the wicker caning of the chair. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that Blaine was studying him intently, but he refused to glance over.

"You didn't leave my bedside for three days," Kurt said. "People will talk... if they aren't already. I think it's best we keep to ourselves for a while."

"But my grandfather will be back soon..." Blaine's voice cracked as he spoke, his words thick with emotion.

"All the more reason to keep our distance."

"But Kurt..."

He glanced over then, but only for a moment. The look of utter despair on Blaine's face nearly broke his heart, but he knew it was for the best. They couldn't afford to have people talking, not now... and not ever.

"I'll be right here," Kurt said. "I'm not going anywhere, but we just need to maintain a more..." He paused and thought about what his father had said and the importance of appearances. "A more appropriate relationship. We can still be friends."

Blaine stood up then, pulling a cigarette from his silver case and lighting it, but he didn't look down at Kurt.

"I will ask her to marry me," Blaine said, his shoulders squared and pulled back proudly. "But I'm not losing you."

And he walked away briskly, crossing the lawn to the Fabrays and taking Quinn's arm effortlessly. If he hadn't been looking for it, Kurt wouldn't have seen the abject tension in his entire body, the way his smile didn't quite reach his eyes, or the reddish-pink tint to the tips of his ears as he seethed silently with anger.

It hurt immensely to see him like that, but Kurt couldn't go after him —and anyway, what else was there to say? They needed to be more careful; this was for the best.

Just then jubilant music started up and one of the waiters, a colored man, stood up to greet them all. He selected six hotel guests as judges who were instructed to take the audience's response into consideration as they watched the colored couples perform their walks.

A parade of hotel staff, mostly waiters and housekeepers, pranced and high stepped around the courtyard in time to the music. The spectators clapped and hooted, tapping their feet in time to the rhythm. It was a spectacle for sure with the Negro couples on display like a circus act. Kurt didn't much care for it, and by the look on Blaine's face, he didn't either. Quinn looked equal parts amused and bored, yet Kurt suspected there were more feelings under the surface, truer ones he couldn't get a read on.

But for the most part, the hotel guests seemed completely entertained by the music and merriment.

The next couple to line up for judging looked familiar, at least the man did; he was Kurt's waiter from the dining room. Kurt clapped loudly for him and craned his neck to see if the judges appeared to like their presentation. There was no visible response, however, and soon another group was making its way around the stage.

Kurt noticed that the ladies were dressed much finer than colored women usually dressed in St. Augustine. It was as if this was the most spectacular event of the season for them. Women in brightly colored dresses and large feathered hats, their dark skin accenting the colorful patterns and embellishments of their attire. The men were just as resplendent in their full morning suits, with shiny top hats on their heads and pristine spats over their shoes.

The men marched in an exaggerated military style, leaning way back and lifting their legs high in the air, swinging the women around whenever they turned. The women held tightly to the men's arms and followed their lead with equal precision, although some had more grace than others, which Kurt assumed was part of the judging. He recognized a few other hotel staffers among the crowd, and he was certain the man on the end, dressed in a fashionable tan-colored suit, was Dr. Anderson's butler, Jenkins.

After several similar presentations that reminded Kurt of exaggerated dancing and a long process of elimination, only four couples remained from the original fifteen.

The music came to an abrupt halt while the judges conferred, causing the crowd to begin shouting for their favorites. Kurt laughed at the spectacle of it all, catching Blaine out of the corner of his eye cheering Jenkins' name as loudly as the rest were shouting names of their own servants.

Soon one of the judges, a tall man Kurt had seen in the smoking room talking to Mr. Barrow, stood and held his arms up to quiet the crowd.

"We have a winner," he bellowed.

He gestured to his right and a waiter wheeled the large cake to the front of the platform. It looked as though the thick icing had begun to melt in the heat, and Kurt wondered if that mattered at all to the winners.

"It was a difficult decision," the man continued. "Several of our colored friends were quite adept at the cakewalk today." He paused for the crowd to clap. "But there can only be one winner." More light applause punctuated his sentence.

"My fellow guests of the Ponce, this lovely cake, and the honor of day goes to Mr. Jenkins of Markland House and Miss Brown of the Alcazar."

Blaine's cheering could be heard over everyone else, even as several guests of the Ponce began to grumble that the head waiter should have won.

"His high steps were much more controlled," one lady said.

"And my maid's dress was much prettier," another said.

"I think it's a little barbaric," a third voice said.

Kurt turned to see who had made the comment, as he was inclined to agree, and came face to face with Quinn Fabray. She held a lacy parasol over her head to shield her fair skin from the sun, and the mottled patterns it made on her face gave her a sinister edge that was at odds with her delicate features.

"Miss Fabray," he said.

She tilted her head in his direction, giving him a polite smile in acknowledgement. "Mr. Hummel, I'm glad to see you're feeling better."

"Why, thank you," Kurt said. When she made no further attempt at conversation, he added, "Did you enjoy the show?"

A laugh that was more sniff than anything else just barely reached Kurt's ears, and he looked up at her. Her head was held high as she watched her parents usher Blaine around, introducing him to all their friends.

"I don't see why we should make such a spectacle of the servants," she said, her eyes narrowed to small slits.

"They seemed to enjoy it," Kurt said, nodding to the participants who were congratulating the winners, their bright, energetic voices carrying across the lawn.

"If you heard the things people were saying," Quinn replied. "It's a way to openly mock them while making them feel like they're part of this." She gestured loosely with a gloved hand toward the hotel. "It's cruel."

"That's a very progressive viewpoint," Kurt said, astounded she was sharing her feelings, let alone with him.

She glanced down and studied Kurt for a moment, her eyes softening slightly when she spoke.

"Yes, well... my parents wouldn't approve," she said, fidgeting with the tassel on the end of her parasol. "My father says this is a way for the Negroes to get all the 'big ideas' out of their system."

"Big ideas?"

Quinn nodded. "You know, like being treated like a person."

"You sound like you're speaking from experience."

"Me?" she said, with a bitter laugh. "I don't get to speak; I'm a woman. We should be seen and not heard."

"You sound like my fiancée, Rachel," he said. Suddenly Kurt had sympathy for her; perhaps he had misjudged. "And certainly Blaine doesn't make you feel that way," Kurt said, the words tumbling out of his mouth without permission from his brain.

"No," she said with a sigh. "He's actually quite nice to me, and he treats me like a person, which is more than I can say for my father." She paused then, glancing over at her parents, who were laughing with an exaggerated air at something their companions had said. "They're so wretchedly simple. It's all parties and impressing the 'right people' and showing me off. I get so sick of it all the time."

"Have you tried telling them how you feel?"

"It's not that simple," she said. "It's just the way my life is. In many ways, I envy you... no expectations, no stupid society rules."

Kurt was reminded of Blaine, and he realized how much alike they were.

"I still have obligations," he said. "Although, they are ones I don't mind so much."

"Like your fiancée?" Quinn inquired.

"Yes, she's part of it."

"Tell me about her."

"Would you like to see a picture?"

Quinn nodded and Kurt took out the photograph he always carried with him — the same one he'd shown to Blaine that first night. It all seemed so long ago now, and the photo felt like a lifeline — a necessary tether to a life he knew he must embrace, that in some ways he needed like he needed the breath in his body, but that he also felt might suffocate him in the end anyway.

"She's lovely," Quinn said. "You're a lucky young man."

"She's my best friend," Kurt replied automatically. It had become his standard response when anyone asked him about Rachel.

"Then you're both lucky," Quinn said. Something in her expression gave Kurt pause. She sounded almost wistful.

"You could have that too," he said. "Blaine is very fond of you."

"He talks about me?"

Quinn's shock was evident on her face, as if she couldn't believe that Blaine were interested in her beyond her name or her status. Her expression was that of a delighted child who'd just made her first friend, a feeling that Kurt could completely relate to. In that moment, Kurt made a decision to answer her question honestly, even though it was not entirely true — at least not in the way he knew Quinn would likely take it.

"We talk about you all the time," he said.

Quinn's face broke into the first genuine smile Kurt had seen since he first laid eyes on her. Part of him felt dreadful for deliberately deceiving her, but he also wanted to her to be happy and knew that Blaine was fond of her. Why should everyone have to be miserable?

"Well, I didn't expect that," she said, nervously picking at the seams on her gloves. "Although, I'm sure you talk about Rachel all the time too."

"I do," he said.

He'd already decided that he'd devote himself to Rachel when he returned to New York in March. His father's words had made an impression that he felt every time he thought of Blaine. It would be all too easy to shirk his responsibilities and run away with his lover, if it weren't for the promises he had made. No, Kurt had made a promise and intended to fulfill it – no matter how desperately it tore his heart in two.

Quinn smiled again, shifting her parasol to her left hand as she extended her right to Kurt.

"I'm really glad you're feeling better, Mr. Hummel," she said. "Blaine is lucky to have a friend like you."

"Not nearly as lucky as he is to have you," Kurt replied, genuinely meaning it as he squeezed her hand before she walked away to rejoin her parents and Blaine on the other side of the courtyard.

Dinner with the Barrows had a numbing effect. Kurt and his father arrived late, Kurt still uncertain on shaky legs that were weak from several days of not being used, but he didn't care. It was glorious to be dining with people again and no longer relying on nurses for his lukewarm soup or porridge.

"You're still looking a bit peaky, Kurt," Mrs. Barrow said once they were all seated.

"Better than he looked yesterday," Burt insisted, glancing over to his son and smiling broadly.

"You're sure it's not contagious?" Mr. Barrow asked, covering his mouth and nose with his handkerchief.

"Dr. Smith says there's absolutely no danger," Burt said.

The doctor had said Kurt could leave the chair if he were resting or eating meals, but that he shouldn't walk too far on his own yet. That was fine with Kurt; he still got tired easily and his legs wobbled if he stood too long.

"I hope he knows what he's talking about," Mr. Barrow said, lowering his handkerchief just enough to be polite, but moving his chair just a few more inches away from Kurt.

"I promise I won't get my disease on you," Kurt said.

"Kurt," his father scolded.

"It's quite alright, Burt," Mrs. Barrow said. "John just hates being sick."

She patted her husband lovingly on the arm and gave him a hopeful glance. He nodded curtly and pocketed his handkerchief. Mrs. Barrow looked satisfied with his reaction and returned her attentions to the group. Her eyes darted to the entryway of the dining room and she let out an audible gasp, lifting a gloved hand to her chest.

"Oh, don't they look lovely?" she gushed.

Kurt followed Mrs. Barrow's line of sight; it was the Fabrays entering the dining room, Quinn once again on the arm of Blaine Anderson. He tried to avert his eyes, not wanting Blaine to see him looking, but Blaine caught his eye briefly, giving a single nod in acknowledgement as they crossed the room to their table.

The entire meal, Kurt felt like he was on display, the burn of Blaine's gaze heated even from across the room. Even his own father had taken to glancing over at him with concern in between courses. The Barrows carried on as if nothing was amiss, Mrs. Barrow effusing about the afternoon's cakewalk.

"I don't care what they say about this town," she said. "We've never seen anything so cultured in New York."

Kurt snorted — an undignified response, but no one reacted, so perhaps it didn't matter.

"Yes, it's so very cultured to make a spectacle of people, " he said, mirroring Quinn's words from earlier.

"I'm sorry I missed it," Burt said, trying to draw attention away from his son's cheekiness.

"Where were you?" Mrs. Barrow inquired politely before lifting her spoon delicately to her lips and taking a taste of her soup.

Burt cleared his throat loudly.

"Well, I... uh..."

"With Mrs. Hudson again, you old dog?" Mr. Barrow nudged Burt with his elbow as he burst out with raucous laughter. A lady at the next table turned to glare at him, drawing a sniff from the man.

Burt drew his shoulders back. "Mrs. Hudson and I have both suffered similar losses," he said. Kurt could tell he was fighting to stay calm. "It is nice to talk to someone who understands what it's like to lose a spouse."

Kurt placed a hand on his father's under the table. He knew Burt wouldn't accept outward affection in mixed company, but he hoped the small gesture would comfort him nonetheless. He didn't immediately shrug Kurt off, so he considered that a success, but soon he lifted his hand to the table, and Kurt did the same.

"Forgive my husband," Mrs. Barrow said. "He has all the tact of a herd of elephants."

"It's alright, Mrs. Barrow. I have no secrets." Burt held his head high and challenged John Barrow with a lift of his eyebrow. Kurt grinned proudly, feeling grateful that he had inherited his father's sense of self worth and ability to shirk the judgment of others.

By the time dessert was served, the atmosphere at the table had returned to a respectable level of politeness, and Kurt was so engrossed in the thick chocolate cake in front of him that he didn't see Blaine approach their table.

"Ah, Blaine," Burt greeted. "You look rested."

"Yes, thank you," he said. "I came to see how Kurt is feeling. He still looked a little pale this afternoon at the cakewalk."

Kurt was immediately suspicious, setting his fork down to wait for the man to make his intentions known. Blaine knew perfectly well how Kurt was doing.

He raised his chin, casting Blaine a pointed glance. "I still get tired easily, but I'm doing much better. Thank you."

Blaine opened his mouth to reply, only to be interrupted by the arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Lowry. As they greeted the Barrows with the usual pleasantries, it pulled everyone's attention for the moment.

Kurt allowed himself to be fawned over some more before being ignored completely. He picked up his discarded fork and began making patterns with the tines in the spongy cake, his appetite gone in the wake of Blaine's unexpected arrival.

"Can I talk to you for a moment?" Blaine muttered just loud enough for Kurt to hear it.

Kurt's fork clattered against the plate.

"I don't think that's a good idea," he replied through gritted teeth.

Blaine ignored his protest, instead choosing to address Kurt's father, who was rising from his chair and straightening his jacket.

"Mr. Hummel, I thought I could take Kurt out for some fresh air — allow you the opportunity to enjoy your after dinner brandy."

Burt glanced to Kurt, as if he were gauging his son's response. Kurt offered a small nod and pursed his lips.

"I have been neglecting it," Burt said, laughing. "I wouldn't mind having a cigar either."

"I'll join you," Mr. Barrow said, oblivious to the mounting tension as he stood and offered his hand to his wife. "Emily, would you like me to escort you upstairs?"

"I just promised Bess I'd meet her in the parlor," she said, tilting her head to accept a kiss on the cheek from her husband. "You were sitting right here, dear."

"So I was," he laughed. "I can never keep up with your social calendar."

Kurt resisted the urge to roll his eyes or offer up a retort. He needed to save his energies for what was sure to be a difficult conversation with Blaine, who somehow looked even more dashing than usual, though he was wearing the same evening suit he always did.

As the group walked away, Kurt watched Blaine's lips curve up into a satisfied smile. "Alone at last," he said, leaning forward to help Kurt to his feet.

He hated being dependent on others to get around, but as he leaned on Blaine a little as they exited the dining room he could smell that mix of pomade and tobacco he'd come to associate with Blaine and it felt like home. Shaking off the desire to collapse into the man's arms, he allowed himself to be guided out into the hotel's main courtyard and into a pair of high-backed chairs that faced the fountain.

"I've been thinking about what you said earlier," Blaine said once they were seated and without waiting for Kurt to acknowledge him in any way.

Kurt raised an eyebrow and tilted his head, imploring Blaine to continue, unprepared or unsure if he wanted to speak.

"I'm going to ask Quinn to marry me."

Kurt's eyes went wide; he had known this would happen eventually, but he hadn't expected it so soon. Something about the entire situation felt off, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

"I've spoken to her father, and as soon as I buy a ring, I can officially ask her. Of course, that's just a formality." The words tumbled out of Blaine in a rush, and he turned to face Kurt, looking like he was trying to gauge the man's reaction.

"I think that's a sensible decision," Kurt said, working to keep his expression neutral. "She's a wonderful young lady."

"Kurt, please..." he began, resting a hand on Kurt's forearm. "Don't be like this."

Kurt yanked his arm away and folded his hands in his lap, pulling at his fingers while thinking of what to say. He took a deep breath and forced out his words. "I'm happy for you."

Blaine sighed deeply and took out his cigarette case. He opened it and offered one to Kurt to Kurt as usual. Kurt shook his head and declined; the act itself felt far too intimate while he was trying to separate himself and his heart from Blaine.

After a long moment, Blaine lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply. "We both know that's not true."

"What would you like me to say, Blaine?"

Blaine's gaze remained steady for a moment longer before letting Kurt's eyes go. "Nothing, I suppose," he sighed. "I just wanted you to know."

They were both silent for a few moments, the air around them thickening with humidity and emotion. The weight of it pressed down on Kurt's chest with every breath, and without thinking, he let out the very next idea that entered his brain. "Your grandfather will be pleased."

"Damn my grandfather!" The angry bellow exploded out of Blaine into the evening air and made Kurt jump. "This isn't about him."

"Then what...?" Kurt couldn't even finish his sentence. It felt like he couldn't get a deep enough breath, or maybe that was just the side effects of the fever. Dr. Smith had said he might not be back to full strength for a while.

"It's about us, Kurt... you and me." Kurt sucked in a breath that made his chest constrict tightly.

"I'm afraid I don't understand," he rasped out, even as Blaine's words began to sink in.

"You were right," Blaine said, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He flicked ash from the glowing tip of his cigarette onto the concrete floor beneath them. "With me clinging to my bachelor status like a life preserver, everyone will keep talking, but if I am engaged to be married, and you as well, of course... Well, what can they say?"

"Plenty," Kurt said, tilting his head back and gazing into the globe of the electric light hanging over their heads. The glass orb was suspended between the wrought iron bars like a bauble caught in the claws of a fearsome beast. He almost laughed at the fanciful thought.

He lowered his head and turned to look at Blaine, who tilted his head to face Kurt, golden eyes boring into him even in the partial darkness. Something about his eyes still appeared hopeful and expectant, but Kurt didn't know how he could be either under the circumstances. Didn't he feel trapped? Kurt certainly did.

"When will you ask?" Kurt inquired.

"Right after my grandfather returns. I was hoping to travel to Atlanta to look for a ring."

Kurt deflated. As much as he insisted he and Blaine keep their distance, he was genuinely disappointed he wouldn't be seeing Blaine at dinner or around town for a few days.

"They probably have a better selection," Kurt said, sounding far more sensible and level-headed than he felt. "Larger city and all that..."

"I'd like you to go with me," Blaine said.

The offer punctured the tension between them like a balloon pricked with a pin. Kurt felt his jaw go slack. "With you?"

"Yes," Blaine said, his lips curling into a seductive smile. "I thought it would do you some good after being cooped up in that hospital for so long."

"It wasn't even a week."

"It felt like an eternity."

Blaine's eyes were two pools of molten honey, sucking Kurt down and down even as he fought to stay afloat.

"Blaine, we can't..."

"I've worked it all out," Blaine said, standing up. He began to pace back and forth in front of Kurt as he talked excitedly. "We'll tell your father I'm taking you to see another doctor – just for a second opinion. No one will suspect anything."

Kurt felt his resolve crumbling even as he scrambled for reasons that he shouldn't go. "Your grandfather will be back soon. People will talk."

"Then we'll leave separately. Tell everyone I'm going somewhere else."

He seemed to have an answer for everything. Kurt wanted to laugh, to cry, but most of all to give in. "Why are you so desperate all of a sudden?"

"Because we're running out of time, Kurt." Blaine stopped in front of him and leaned against the low brick wall opposite Kurt. Seeing Blaine framed so picturesquely by the archway made Kurt wish he had a pencil and some paper with him so he could sketch the scene before him, remember it always.

"When you were sick, I realized how much I needed you in my life," Blaine continued, "but this little bubble we've built for ourselves is fragile. It won't last. We need to figure out a way to create more moments for ourselves... because the world won't offer them to us."

Kurt's heart warmed as Blaine spoke. He watched his lover's lips curl around the tip of his cigarette and Kurt's eyes followed a wisp of smoke as it wound its way between them, connecting them almost invisibly.

"You're a hopeless romantic," Kurt said.

"And you love that about me."

Blaine's smile was flirtatious and bright even in the darkness. Kurt couldn't resist returning it. Everything about Blaine had him wanting more, and that terrified him. Yet the thought of leaving it all behind for something as intangible as one's reputation, well, that seemed downright ridiculous.

"Will you let me pick out the ring?" Kurt asked.

Blaine's smile shone brighter than all the electric lights in the lobby combined.

"I wouldn't settle for anything less."