He’s standing in Tim Hortons, waiting for his coffee-to-go because it’s stronger and tastes a lot like Canada, a country he’s always fancied moving to but never actually did, when he sees it.

A slightly messy head of black curls right above his line of sight.

He does a double take before he realizes it’s a stranger and not Blaine and after a third look, it couldn’t possibly be Blaine because the stranger is female.

Shaking his head, he steps up to get his coffee, and bolts out of the store before he can dwell on the thought.

——

Blaine’s not sure why he’s so hung up over the completely accidental run-in with Kurt the other day.

It’s been a week and he keeps seeing him everywhere he turns.

The first time is in a bookstore his agent told him about and he’s very much convinced it’s Kurt until the person turns and asks where the romance section is and whoa, Kurt’s voice was never that deep. Not even during sex.

He ignores the pang in his gut and grabs the first book he can touch to distract himself from forbidden thoughts.

——

It happens again when Kurt’s walking down the street.

This time is a bit different, but it still brings back a lot of memories.

Between the upcoming Deathiversary and subsequent show, Kurt’s stressed beyond belief. Sometimes, walking in Central Park helps.

This particular Tuesday, fifteen days after their encounter, does the trick until he’s circling back. He’s so close to his office and a clear head, he nearly cries.

Walking the opposite way is a teenage couple. The brunet boy has his arm wrapped tight around the other boy’s waist, digging his face into the black curls that are at a perfect height for making such a gesture.

Kurt tries to tell himself that the envy he feels is from having grown up in Ohio instead of New York City.

——

“You just spilled coffee all over my new Armani!”

“That name still exists?”

“What do you mean?”

“Armani’s so … last decade. k.a.d. is where it’s at.”

“I heard he’s engaged. Everyone knows that’s the end of your career.”

“So is having a kid and he’s got a teenager.”

“She’s almost eighteen. I remember the spread that one magazine did when she was born.”

“I can’t believe he’s still famous.”

“Chanel lasted forever and will continue to do so.”

The tears come faster than Blaine expects and he gets off the train at the next stop even though he’s blocks and blocks from his destination.

Even though he supposedly doesn’t care, he knows k.a.d. is Kurt’s brand.

He doesn’t know what the initials stand for.

——

Markets are the absolute worst. Everywhere he turns, he sees a pair of bottomless hazel eyes or a mop of curly black hair or a guarded, bright smile or a short man.

They’re everywhere, doppelgangers of the real thing, sent by Heaven to torture him ruthlessly.

He feels the panic settle in and he’s baffled by it and he knows he’s doing a piss-poor job of hiding his internal turmoil because Elizabeth’s looking at him funny and asking him for the umpteenth time whether they should buy the red or white onions.

They both hate onions.

——

Brittany and Santana have invited him over on a Friday night towards the end of September. Astrid and Natalia are out at some party or something and the three haven’t properly caught up in forever.

A couple glasses of good wine later has the trio hopping on the ancient desktop the Lopez clan has neglected to get rid of already to look at old photos.

Blaine ends up learning a lot about their sophomore year and later can barely contain the silly giggles of New Directions in their various Rocky Horror costumes.

Nobody says anything when he falls silent after Brittany pulls up videos of Cheerios routines from sophomore year.

——

He tries not to cry the morning of the Deathiversary when he wakes up and thinks he’s pressed up against Blaine.

But then he turns and the hair’s not curly enough and the eyes the wrong shade of hazel and the smile not right and he finally does break down in tears because he realizes he doesn’t feel guilty for thinking that.

He’s been thinking that for twenty years now.

——

It’s almost Halloween by the time things start becoming strained between Kurt and Jack. Even Elizabeth has picked up on it and she makes sure Kurt is aware of this.

He’s angrily tapping his fingers against the steering wheel of his car as Elizabeth calmly and quietly explains how she’s noticed that the two men don’t look at each other a lot and their conversations are quite terse if she does say so herself and Kurt finds himself chewing over why the hell traffic on Amsterdam Avenue had to be so bad today.

“Dad? Are you even listening to me? I mean, I don’t particularly care for Jack, nor he for me, but he’s been around for almost nine months so he’s obviously better at making you feel alright than all the others and I care about your happiness and shit, now I’m rambling.”

“Language.”

Elizabeth throws her hands up in annoyance. They smack loudly against her thighs just as her cell phone buzzes and she dives to the backpack at her feet to answer it.

Ever since the car accident in Lima this past summer, Kurt drives Elizabeth around to the various places she needs to be if she can’t get a ride from a friend. Still recovering from the emergency spine correctional surgery in August, it’s forced her to tone it down with her school’s show choir and theatre departments. Kurt only allowed her to go back to work at the same caf� he frequents (and ran into Blaine at, but it’s not appropriate to think about that right now) the previous week.

Walking anything more than down the block is a bit of a pain and there’s only a small set of people Elizabeth feels comfortable driving with, so driving on her own or taking the subway is completely out of the question.

“Are you pissed that Jack forgot about me again? It’s the third time this week, you know.”

“Yes, Elizabeth, I’m aware,” Kurt snaps, feet slamming against the brake even though he was taught in Driver’s Ed to never do just that.

“Jesus,” she breathes after her body snaps forward and she throws her free arm out against the dashboard to brace herself.

“What do you even see in him?” Elizabeth asks not for the first time and Kurt sighs because they both know why but they’ll never actually say it aloud.

“Like you said. He’s good at making me feel like I’m a step or two above being eternally depressed.”

“He didn’t even know who Alexander McQueen or Barbra Streisand were. That’s a travesty according to your standards. No wonder he hasn’t met any of your friends yet.”

“I’m aware.”

“He’s not even that cute.”

“That’s your opinion.”

“He’s a tool, Dad.”

“Elizabeth.”

“I’m serious. He’s one of those types that would run because the other has a kid but sticks around anyway because the sex is mediocre.”

“You’re walking on thin ice right now.”

“Oh, right. I’m sorry. According to Noah Puckerman, he’s only sticking around because you’re above mediocre in bed, even though I don’t know how he knows that.”

“Phone, one week.”

She hands it over with a sniff. “I hope my point was made.”

“Do you have enough tampons for next week?”

“I haven’t had my period in three years when you made me go on birth control as my congrats-you’re-starting-high-school present.”

“Why are you being such a bitch?”

The question hangs between them, a loud, attention-seeking scratch on their relationship.

“I’m sorry,” Kurt murmurs after a while, trying to find a parking spot on their side of the street. He succeeds faster than he thought he would and deftly parallel parks without much effort “That was uncalled for and completely inappropriate of me. I shouldn’t be asking those questions.”

Elizabeth shakes her head. She knows Kurt has a show in a week and really, she shouldn’t be pressing buttons like that.

“Don’t worry, Dad. It’s okay. Apology accepted.” She opens the door. “But for the record, I don’t like him. He makes me feel unwelcome in my own home, something I know you’ve been trying to avoid. I thought you always said that my happiness went above yours or maybe that’s my conceited, bitchy teenage side whispering in my ear.

She slams the door at the same moment Kurt’s forehead meets his steering wheel.

——

“And so then Josh was all pissy because Jessica told him that Aubrey said that Amelia said that Andrea said that Meghan was sleeping with Nick, not Noah, and Noah was actually sleeping with Mark.”

Blaine raises an eyebrow at the two teenage girls who’re sitting on the floor of the Lopez living room, phones in hand as they talked.

“God, I hate the Three A’s,” the older one drones, her thick Queens accent permeating her words. Her r’s all about disappeared and her o’s sounded like auw.

“I know, right?” The younger one didn’t have it as bad but Blaine still has to focus to understand them both. “So Carly got involved — and you know how that ends — and she’s supposedly pregnant with Tommy’s kid, even though we all know that means she was cheating on Chad with Tommy, but the events don’t line up so the possibility that it’s actually Trent’s kid is more likely, which means Amelia and Andrea will be crying for days because they have that weird threesome relationship or whatever.”

The older one pauses her thumbs over her phone. “Nat, I thought it as Aubrey and Amelia.”

She shrugs. “I know Amelia was one of them. Maybe it was Alexa.”

“Natalia! Can you come here please?” Santana’s voice floats out from the kitchen in the small house.

The girl huffs a sigh and jumps up from her sitting position on the floor.

Blaine watches the older girl — Astrid was her name, though it translated into ‘Star’ and so everyone called her that after she asked — and tilts his head to the side in thought.

“You keep up wit’ that?” Star suddenly asks, not looking up from her phone. “Or do you need the SparkNotes version?”

He resists the urge to ask how she knew what that was and instead opts for question number two. “How do you keep with all that?”

“I thought gay guys were, like, boss at that stuff.” Her face scrunches up in thought and it’s very clear that Brittany is her genetic mother. Blaine has to remind himself that Star is eighteen, not twelve, even if she looks that young.

“Then I must be really old.”

Star shrugs with a small laugh. “I do it to keep in her good graces. Thirteen-year-old girls are horrible. I remember all too well.”

Brittany calls for dinner.

It’s a ritual that’s slowly gaining momentum. Every Tuesday, Blaine comes over and lets Santana cook him a five-star meal. Santana says it’s like killing two birds with one stone — she makes sure he’s out of his apartment at least once a week and that he’s eating properly. Blaine says she’s turning into his mother.

Star’s complaining about school and the production the drama club is doing when Blaine tunes back in.

“Oh God, it’s horrible. I mean, it’s bad enough that Hummel got Sweeney and she just loves shoving it in everyone’s faces, but lately it’s like something crawled up her ass and died because all she does is bitch at everyone about awful they’re doing. It’s really frustrating.”

Brittany and Santana share a look and then give Blaine sympathetic glances. Natalia’s too busy texting under the table tonotice; Star, on the other hand, picks up right away.

“What?”

Santana opens her mouth, pauses, and then chooses her words very carefully. “Don’t be … so quick to … judge her,” she settles on.

“Yeah,” Brittany chimes in and it’s amazing how she never seems to have lost the childlike aura about her. “I mean, my boss lives next door to this intern who works for Kurt’s assistant and he heard that Kurt’s been stressed lately.”

Girls and gossip. Blaine will never fully understand it.

Brittany barrels on. “Especially between his show and his relationship. Apparently Jack just went back to Kurt’s house after spending a night at a hotel down the street because of a fight they had over Elizabeth and Jack hating each other.”

“So yeah.” Santana shoots Blaine another look, one he can’t identify. “Don’t judge her. Elizabeth’s home life is hard enough as it is with Kurt’s … tendencies.”

Blaine felt his eyebrows furrow but Santana discreetly shook her head in the universal sign for tell you later.

Star rolls her eyes and stabs a meatball but falls silent.

Later that night, Brittany was off trying to get the house settled down and Blaine and Santana stood in the tiny kitchen, washing and drying dishes together. The dishwasher had broken a few months prior but they hadn’t gotten around to fixing it, citing money as the issue.

“Something’s troubling you,” Blaine murmurs, scrubbing at a particularly irritating spot of sauce on a plate.

“You always knew what I was thinking,” Santana notes. She pauses her drying work on the plate in her hands. “Something about Star is confusing me, though.”

“What exactly? Her use of vulgar language?”

Santana playfully punches Blaine in the arm and resumes her drying. “No, about Elizabeth flaunting her role. She’s not … that’s not typical of her. Kurt in sophomore year, maybe. But not Elizabeth. She’s too … sweet and good-natured for that. She was raised better than that. Britt’s her genetic mother. We’ve watched her grow up from this side of Roosevelt Island.”

“Do you think it’s something to do with Kurt?” Blaine asks, hoping that he doesn’t sound too curious.

“Maybe.” If Santana suspects that Blaine’s trying squeeze information out of her, she doesn’t say anything.

“San?” Brittany asks, poking her head into the kitchen.

“Yeah?” Santana stacks another plate in the cupboard right above her head.

“Where does Miss Terramino live again?”

“Eighty-fourth street. Does Lord Tubbington need her help?”

“He keeps eating his paw. Maybe. I’d rather get it checked out.” Brittany smiles at Blaine. “It’s good to see you regularly again. You were always so obsessed with Kurt in high school.” She takes a step and kisses Santana on the temple. “I’m going up to bed. See you, Blaine.”

The pair work in silence for a few moments until Blaine can hear Brittany in her bedroom right above them. “I could’ve sworn Lord Tubbington—”

Santana clamped a mouth over Blaine’s mouth. “Say that word and we kick you out. Lord Tubbington is a very special cat who has inherited immortality from his magical mother.”

“Isn’t he like thirty-eight then?”

“Forty-two.”

Blaine hands the last plate to Santana and kisses her on the same temple as Brittany did. “I think I’m going to go back home and not attempt to understand how your family works. I can let myself out. Thanks for taking me in, San. I don’t … I don’t deserve it, especially after everything that happened and me pushing you away.”

He turns to leave when Santana conspicuously coughs and sets down the lasagna dish. “Blaine.”

“What?” he asks, looking back at her.

She gathers him up in a hug and squeezes tight. “I went through a lot of shit defending you. A lot of people stopped talking to me, especially Kurt.” The next part she whispers in his ear. “You and I, we’re not so different. You’ll always be a brother to me, yeah?”

Blaine nods into her shoulder.

“Now get going,” Santana says, pushing Blaine away and sniffing and pressing the back of her hand into her eye. “I have work in the morning and you have to continue being on sabbatical even though I know you’re writing new music.”

——

Elizabeth storms out of the elevator, her bag, clothes, and body drenched in rainwater.

“That is it!” she shouts, not caring if anyone else hears.

Kurt does. He gets off the couch in the living room, his mouth gaping at the sight of his daughter.

“Wha—”

She explodes on him. “You said you were going to pick me up today. Three o’clock rolls around; okay, fine, maybe he’s running late from his coffee run, I can handle this. Three-thirty? His phone’s not on. It probably died. Dad does have that tendency to not notice those things. Four-thirty and he hasn’t answered his phone or showed up or even told Jackie to call me to call someone else for a ride home? Now that’s pretty shifty.

"So I call Jack. He’s in Brooklyn and can’t get me because he’s spending the night at his mom’s house. I call the house. Nobody answers. I call you again and nobody answers. All my friends are either busy or don’t answer, so I’m forced to walk home. Which wouldn’t be so bad if the skies hadn’t opened up on me and decided than ten blocks away from home is a fabulous place to start raining on me. And it’s not like I can run because I haven’t been cleared for that, yet. So I’m forced to walk with a throbbing back and hip in the pouring rain for ten blocks. Everything in my bag is ruined.”

Kurt just gapes in response, horror and guilt washing across his face. He feels like he’s been punched in the gut.

“I completely forgot—”

“That’s just it!” Elizabeth lets out a hysterical sob. It’s clear to Kurt now based on her red eyes that she’s been crying. “You forgot! You keep doing that! I can’t go on the trip to the museum in Albany for Art because you forgot to sign the permission slip last week, I had to remind you several times of the mandatory parent-teacher conferences parents of seniors have to go to, and now today! Three strikes, Dad! What is going on with you?”

He sighs in defeat. “Go get changed. I’ll lay out your stuff and see what I can salvage. I’m sorry.”

Elizabeth stalks up the stairs without another word.

Kurt grabs her bag and takes it to the kitchen, laying out the books and notebooks and papers out on the kitchen island and counter. He turns up the heat in the room and hopes it works.

When he returns to the living room, Elizabeth is there on his vacated spot in a pair of faded grey sweatpants and a long sleeve white shirt. Around her shoulders is the blanket Kurt had just been using. New York has finally been hit hard by the cold of winter.

“I’m sorry.”

“You keep saying that but it obviously doesn’t mean anything to you anymore.”

“Elizabeth—”

“Jack has screwed everything up, you know that?” Her eyes are stormy and she trains them on her father. “I know who he looks like. I’m not totally ignorant. I learned who he was a couple of years ago. Brittany mentioned him and then couldn’t not explain to me when Santana started choking on air.”

Kurt sucks in a breath, takes the seat next to Elizabeth. Instantly, she curls in on him and he wraps his arms around her in a strong embrace.

“You ran into him, didn’t you? You’ve been acting a lot like when he comes up in conversation,” she says, her voice softer now.

“How so?” he asks, fixing a bump in the bun on the top of her head.

She burrows deeper into his arms like she used to when she was little. “You’re kind of distant and don’t remember a lot of stuff and in another world completely.”

“It … shook me a little.”

“A lot.”

“Okay, Miss Smarty Pants,” he teases, squeezing her tight for a brief moment. “It shook me a lot.”

“I’m sorry for flipping out on you,” she whispers. “I was just so wet and under a lot of pain and thoroughly annoyed. Carwell gave me a B on my first paper for English even though I should get an A according to the rubric. I’m switching to Creative Writing next week.”

Kurt smiles a little. “Thanks for telling me. And apology accepted, though I am going to promise you that I will stop letting this affect me so much.”

“Just go talk to Aunt Rachel,” Elizabeth suggests, looking up at her dad. “That usually helps you and you haven’t seen her in a while.”

“I’ll go talk to her this weekend,” Kurt agrees. “Cider? There’s still some left in the fridge that I’m sure we can heat up.”

“Yeah,” Elizabeth breathes, standing up with her dad, still tucked under his arm and the large, warm afghan as they made their way into the kitchen.