Kurt was raised on the clank of metal and the stench of motor oil. Hummel Tires & Lube is as much a fixture of Kurt's childhood as the books his mother read him each night before bed and the swing set in his backyard where he scraped his knees jumping off and tried all over to stick the landing in ceaseless cycles.

His father doesn't say a word when Kurt drags himself into the garage, freshly showered and fed, but no less hung over than he had been when he woke up floating on a plastic dolphin in Quinn's pool. Kurt gives the bag in his hand a little shake, passing Burt by to stick it in the fridge in the break room. He grabs a stool and pulls it up beside where his father continues working under the hood of an old Camaro.

Burt remains quiet, giving Kurt an occasional look clearly stating, “Anytime you wanna spit it out, kid – go right ahead.”

Kurt doesn't know if he does though. If he's ready to let his dad help him unload the weight on his shoulders; Burt has a way of simplifying the complicated messes that spring up in Kurt's mind. Something in Kurt must be ready. Something led him into work on his day off to sit beside Burt like he did as a child, when he'd draw pictures of the cars that came into the shop and hand them to his father, only to wrinkle his nose at the grease stains left on the edges of the white sheets and draw them all over again. Now he doesn't mind the grease so much. He gets his own hands dirty, finds comfort in the connection it draws to his father.

When Burt's done and wiping his hands on a rag he keeps tucked in his back pocket, Kurt lifts his propped head from where he'd been falling asleep, dizzy with the familiar sights and sounds and smells of the shop, and the remnants of his hangover. He pulls himself up in a daze with a nod from Burt towards his office.

Kurt claims the big, comfy, padded, spinning chair as his own, sitting down and opening the drawer where he knows Burt keeps a “hidden” stash of candy, pulling out a lollipop and twirling around until his father steps in closing the door behind him.

Burt pulls the sub Kurt made him from the plastic bag he carried it in with, unwrapping it with a bemused expression and handing half to Kurt. Kurt smiles, a goofy thing that splits his face in two, feeling every bit the child he'd been a decade ago, weekends spent with his father while his mom flew off with friends to escape the humdrum habits of suburbia, her youth a badge of honor ‘til the day she died.

Kurt looks like his mother, the same hair, the same nose and eyes. The same inclination to decorate his flesh in pretty metal and ink. Kurt thinks the only reason Burt signed his consent before Kurt turned eighteen was the reminder of Elizabeth. Burt sees Kurt as his mother's son, sees the penchant for troublemaking and the strength of will, and sometimes looks at Kurt like he's seen a ghost.

Kurt has his mother's old CDs and cassettes piled on the shelves of his bookcase, passed down prematurely, before they grew antiquated. He listens to the songs that stole his mother's heart when she was his age and blaring them from her car stereo. Tokens of another life. Pieces of his mother he shifts around like a jigsaw puzzle to fill in the blanks her death created.

He remembers her like that: in fractured pieces. In the perfume she wore and Polaroid keepsakes. In the sunflowers that bloomed across her forearm and the freckles he inherited. In ratty old band tees repurposed into pillowcases and a dependency on caffeine.

In the books she read him and the music she loved.

Kurt is as much of his mother as he can manage without the chance to truly know her. But Kurt knows that it's his father who holds the most influence over him. Burt, who makes dad jokes at every opportunity and looks way too proud of himself when he sneak attacks a Dutch oven, but puts up with Kurt's bitching about bugs and dirt and the lack of civilization after insisting on family camping trips, and indulges . Burt, who welcomes Kurt without question or hesitation when Kurt slinks into the shop and sits by his side just to be close. Burt, whose love and acceptance know no bounds. The kind of man Kurt loves looking up to.

Burt – with tendency to stay quiet until his thoughts are formed into words that will pack the biggest punch – is gruff and intimidating to outsiders. To Kurt, he's home. Humble and protective and heroic in his ordinariness.

Kurt bites into his half of the sub, knowing his father won't wait much longer to ask him why he's here and stuffing his mouth to delay that conversation.

Unsurprisingly, the question is out of Burt's mouth seconds after his last swallow.

“Maybe I just miss you, dad.”

“Bullshit.”

“I do.”

“Okay,” Burt nods. “That's not what's eating you.”

“I'm – nervous about some things.”

“Okay.”

It's the last summer Kurt will spend in Lima, the last chance for goodbyes he's not ready to make. He's ready to leave Lima in the dust, but not his father. Not Carole, not Finn. Not Cooper, nor Tess, nor Matt. Not Quinn, not Puck. Yes, Rachel. Not Blaine.

Not the swing set in the backyard, nor the cassettes crowding his bookcase.

The people he holds close are the only tolerable things in this one-horse town. In three months, he'll leave them all behind for the bright lights and fast pace of New York City. The entirely undesirable drama with Blaine exacerbates the anxiety thrumming at the fringes every time he thinks those few months ahead.

There was an assumption when he and Blaine started dating that it would be over with the changing of the seasons, that Kurt would bust his nut in Blainers and be done. Even amongst Kurt's friends and family, there was seemingly endless, completely unnecessary teasing that it was Kurt – Lima's hometown harlot – who'd taken a bite too big for even him to swallow. That Blaine was too much of a good ol' boy to get down and dirty with the likes of Kurt for too long.

Hell, maybe they were doomed from the start, but it sure as shit doesn't rest on Kurt's shoulders alone. Even if his share of the burden is so heavy he can barely stand upright.

“New York will be strange – without everyone.”

“Who's everyone?”

“Oh my god. Just – everyone, dad.”

“Kiddo, I know we don't talk much about boys.”

“Guh-fucking-roan.”

“Cut it out.”

Kurt slouches down in his seat, but bites his tongue making a show of it for Burt's benefit.

“Thank you.”                                          

“Will I hurt myself if I roll my eyes too hard?”

“Kurt.”

“Sorry.”

And he is sorry. He's not actively trying to push his father's buttons and isolate the one person who always been on his side. At least, not at the moment – the next time Burt builds a pyramid of industrial-size boxes of condoms as a birthday present, all bets are off. Though, that was a fairly thoughtful gift. Blaine's been one seriously eager Beaver about helping Kurt put them to use.

There's a dropping feeling the longer the day goes on without any incoming texts from Blaine, worse for the reluctance at sending one himself.

“Is this about Blaine?”

Duh.

“Bud, c'mon. Work with me here.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

Then it's Burt who waits. Talking to his dad has a tendency of making things feel final, helps him sort through the lies he tells himself and own up to the truth. This truth is too awful to admit, but every day it's getting worse, growing stronger and it fucking hurts.

“I don't think, um… I don't think Blaine is happy with me.”

It's a small admission, the tiny tip of an iceberg. And Kurt is the Titanic.

“Are you happy?”

“I thought so.”

“You guys fighting?”

“It's always that or fucking these days.”

Burt huffs out a chuckle, looks at Kurt the way he does, like he's suddenly remembered Kurt isn't a little kid anymore. It's unsettling, but Burt finally looks away, just shakes his head and sighs.

“Why are you coming to me and not him?”

Kurt shrugs, and it's clearly not good enough given Burt's raised eyebrow and tiny smirk.

“Kurt if you wanna come hang out all day with your old man, I'm not gonna be the one to stop you. But you can't avoid all your problems and treat them like they're resolved. You say you and Blaine are fighting all the time? You're not happy? No one's forcing you two together.”

“I love him.”

“That's good. But loving someone doesn't mean being with them is what's best for you.”

“How am I supposed to know?”

“Can't help you there, kiddo. Talking to Blaine is good place to start. Maybe keep your hands to yourselves while you do it; might be a distraction if your tongue's in his mouth while you're trying to talk. Hey, don't roll your eyes. You're the one who said you two are always having sex.”

“I said fucking.”

“Maybe that's part of your problem.”

“No. I'm pretty sure that's all that runs smoothly.”

:: ::

Kurt lays in bed, his phone discarded in the folds of his sheets. He locked himself in his room when he got home, started playing CDs pulled off his bookcase and hasn't stopped since. He doesn't share the same vigorous love for The Smiths his mother had, but he thinks he gets it. Thinks if he'd discovered the band for any other sake than holding onto his mother, he may still have found a reason to sing along.

Blaine hasn't called, hasn't come over. Kurt saw Rachel's car parked across the street when he pulled into his driveway; he knows Blaine was home, but he couldn't let his heart be broken with her there to watch and gloat. Because that's what will happen the next time they're alone. They'll fight or they'll fuck or both, and the last bit of hope Kurt has for them will be smothered in the smoke of crossfire either way.

A buzzing sounds from somewhere near Kurt's feet. He assumes it's Quinn telling him to get his ass to wherever the hell she is, knowing midnight passed a while ago. It's not Quinn. Squinting against the harsh light of his phone's screen, he sees the notification is from the young Mr. Anderson: truant suitor.

Kurt reads the text asking him to come outside, and his first thought is he has no time to prepare. He doesn't have time to change out of his boxers or stifle his anger. With a blanket draped around his shoulders, he schleps downstairs.

Blaine's sitting on the porch swing, shoulders hunched and head in his hands when Kurt steps outside.

“Fancy meeting you here.”

“Hey.”

“Let's get to it, huh?” he says, plopping down beside Blaine.

“I'm not angry, Kurt.”

“I am. I'm pissed.”

“Dalton – Jeff, I'm sorry about him.”

Kurt gets up, too combustible at the moment. Deep breaths keep him from immediately ripping Blaine a new one, but they do nothing to truly calm him. He needs to be anywhere but on this fucking porch. When he speaks, it's almost eerie how much darker and quiet the night becomes. His heartbeat runs a mile a minute, but his voice somehow remains steady.

“You're sorry about Jeff.” It borders on a question, filled with vitriol and bewilderment. “You think I'm upset because some prep school twat thinks he has a say in who I am?”

“Kurt –”

“No, Blaine. Jeff is so far outside the issue right now. This is about us. And you.”

Blaine sits quietly while Kurt paces back and forth through the grass. Blaine's dead silent and Kurt's so busy fuming he doesn't notice that they're not arguing like usual. That there's been no volleying of bullshit between them, just his anger tossed into the night and silence to consume it. He looks up then at Blaine, who's prim and proper stature remains molded into something so untrue to his anger – because Kurt knows he has to be angry. He has to be – or what's it all for?.

“Look at me, Blaine.”

Blaine's sad eyes pull up to meet his, and Kurt just knows that it's resignation that has tugged Blaine's usually-smiling lips downward, folded his arms across his chest, and dimmed the sunshiny halo that surrounds him. Blaine made up his mind about how tonight would go before Kurt ever came outside. Who knows how long he's been sitting on this decision.

“You called me out of my fucking house at midnight to break up with me.”

“I have to go back to school in the morning.” And Kurt snorts, because of-fucking-course – can't disrupt any delicate timetables with the dissolution of something so menial.

“Right, yeah. Absolutely. The mere two hour distance and my newly wide-open schedule really don't fucking jive well. We couldn't have done this at any other moment. Perfect planning, Beav.”

“I don't want to make you angrier.”

“Not possible.”

“You were right. We – together – we're not… this isn't working.”

“Fuck you.”

Blaine shakes his head, like Kurt's anger has been somehow misdirected. “I don't want to fight,” Blaine says, a sullen plea. Kurt is so achingly tired he can't focus on more than one feeling at a time. Somewhere deep in the back of his mind, he feels pity and envy tumbling around together that Blaine is the one to do this. To call it what it is. But he's hurt more than anything, and for a number of reasons – to start, the throwing in of the towel because as much as everyone thought Kurt would try clawing his way out of monogamy, he's come around to it. He likes having someone on his mind who makes his stomach do that stupid fluttery thing and knowing it was mutual. Was.

Shaky legs carry him back inside, past Blaine who can sleep on the stoop for all he cares. They're done, he's not talking about this anymore. Answers be damned; Kurt can regret walking away tomorrow or some other time when he can breathe without feeling like his chest is caving in. Seeing Blaine so broken down and weary, not even trying to muster a little fighting spirit, killed the fight left in Kurt. They're over; it's done. What the point in yelling about it now?

Fuck it, he tries telling himself with not a single shred of success in biting back the tears that come.

Fuck.