For Blaine, the small noises fade into a comforting background hum, like a fan he needs to have on to fall asleep. The creaks and shuffles and whispers are signs that his kids are okay; that at the very least they have a safe place to sleep.

He's commandeered a room at the end of the hallway. One of the kids shattered the window a few years back, and even though he's replaced the glass, it still won't close fully. The window whistles at night and the room gets drafty, so no one else wants it -- so the room is Blaine's. He keeps an apartment a little ways away, a nice place with a queen-sized bed and plush pillows, not a college dorm-sized mattress next to a standard-issue wooden desk. Somehow, he still ends up in his bed at the house more often than not.

The floorboards outside his door let out a murmur, and Blaine shuts his eyelids. He should've been asleep an hour ago, but the last few days have burrowed under his skin, leaving phantom images and impressions. He feels Kurt's soft hands gripping his shoulders, remembers the way teeth drug across his bottom lip on one of their dozen replays of that first kiss. He thinks about Kurt tonight at dinner: his eyes scrunched up in mirth and his hand in front of his face as he tried hard not to laugh at a story Tracy was recounting.

His bedroom door opens soundlessly; it's the light that floods in from the hallway that cues his eyes to open.

Blaine is sitting up and reaching to turn on the lamp all at once, eyeballing his pants and trying to remember where his keys and phone are. His job never stops, not really, and he's learned that the things that happen after midnight are the ones that he really needs to worry about.

But there's a quiet "sshhhh" from the figure in the doorway, and Kurt pushes the door shut behind him with a soft click. "It's okay; it's just me," Kurt whispers, and Blaine knows that he'll never be just Kurt, but at least gets Blaine to settle back into the bed, the sudden onset of worry and alertness receding.

"Is everything all right?" Blaine asks, sounding sleep-clogged.

"I couldn't sleep." Kurt pauses, then adds, "I missed you." He pads over and takes a careful seat on the edge of Blaine's bed, as if he's poised to spring back up and out at the first indication of Blaine's disapproval. He's wearing his fussy two-piece pajama set with the buttons that march in a seemingly endless row down his chest, and he doesn't look at Blaine when he speaks. "I don't know if I couldn't sleep because I missed you, or I started missing you because I couldn't sleep, but.. " Kurt trails off, and Blaine realizes that his hand is already resting on the small of Kurt's back. "This is okay, right?" he whispers, sitting ramrod-straight.

It would be nothing short of cruel to turn him away now, Blaine knows. Blaine isn't sure where his priorities are or how it even happened; he feels worse over the idea of pulling Kurt close to him with that first stupid, stupid kiss and then trying to push him away again than he does over the kiss itself, the yellow caution tape he shouldn't have crossed. Well, some of the time. There's definitely a correlation between how guilty he feels and the amount of time he spends removed from Kurt's presence, stewing.

He edges over to the side and pulls the covers back, answering simply, "C'mere."

Kurt sinks in beside him, tension evaporating from his body as he folds his legs under the sheets and curls into Blaine's side. Blaine stretches his arm out towards Kurt, and just like that Kurt's head is pillowed on his shoulder.

Blaine drops a chaste kiss onto Kurt's crown, breathing in the clean scent of his hair. Kurt's chin is an uncomfortable point of pressure against Blaine's bony clavicle, but it means that Blaine can feel every warm puff of air that Kurt exhales. Soon it will be too hot with both of them so close under the blankets, but Blaine doesn't kick them down -- he wants to keep Kurt wrapped up safe and secure. He draws him in closer, Kurt's knee fitting in between his legs.

"As flattered as I'd feel thinking it was me that kept you up--" Blaine murmurs, absently brushing his lips across Kurt's hair, just to feel it against his lips. "I'm sure there are other things, yeah?"

Kurt's toes press into the space underneath his calf. "I still don't have friends at school. I get along with the other kids in the house, but they don't understand me. I keep telling myself that it's only a few more months, then I graduate and I can go do everything I've ever wanted to." Blaine can feel Kurt's hand flex by his hip as he tries to physically illustrate himself even while tucked in so close together. "But I guess it just gets hard, sometimes. I know, 'courage' and all that, and I'm here-- I made it this far--" His voice thickens. "I miss my dad. A lot."

"God, Kurt, if he could see you..." Blaine chest is so tight and full that he has to struggle to keep his breathing even and not jostle Kurt too much. "He'd be so proud. He'd just be beaming. You inspire everyone here. You've given me confidence that I'm doing the right thing with this house, with all of these kids." He leans in, forehead to forehead with Kurt. "I had options when I finished grad school. I had all the resources and credentials I needed to start climbing corporate ladders, but I wanted to make a difference. And... I sort of had something to prove to my father," Blaine admits, covert, and with a sliver of a laugh. "I wanted him to finally wash his hands clean of all the expectations he had for me. I was never going to be what he hoped. So I started Courage House, and it worked out, but then I didn't... I didn't have what I thought I would. I was still treating it like a business operation." Kurt's gaze is even with his, subdued but receptive. "Now I'm learning that it's a family, too -- that we take care of each other."

Kurt smiles at him, and it takes no thought at all for them to press their lips together, the kiss simple enough to feel wholesome. "I'm not getting back in my bed tonight," he says with the sort of endearing impudence that only a teenager can conjure.

"I think it's in my job description somewhere that I'm supposed to provide accommodations for you guys," Blaine admits with no displeasure at all. "Are you feeling accommodated?"

Kurt snuggles in closer, placing a tiny kiss over the groove of Blaine's collarbone. "It's adequate."

"Adequate? Really?"

Kurt's fingertips find the hem of Blaine's t-shirt and tap along the material while he works up the nerve to take the next step. Their light tone is a veil that bare covers the true face of Blaine's imprudent happiness, and how Kurt is trying very hard not to let Blaine see that he is so apprehensive he's visibly trembling. "I have high standards."

"I'd never noticed."

Kurt giggles airily, and Blaine thinks it surprises them both when he gets enough nerve to slide his fingers under Blaine's shirt all in one swift go, teasing low across his abdomen. It's not the first time it's been done to Blaine, obviously, but it's clear it's the first time Kurt has put his hands on a man -- on anyone at all. Blaine has to work hard to keep himself in check as Kurt shakes off his hesitance and his hand grows bolder after at Blaine's lack of censure. "Well, you're not very observant."

He knows all sorts of things about Kurt. Mostly from observation, granted, though he's been surprised by the amount Kurt will casually offer up between his criticisms of television shows. Blaine knows about his mother, and his father, and the first foster home he was thrown out of. They're all facts in black and white listed in his file, but Kurt colors them every time he admits he knows how to change an alternator, or talks about his glassy-eyed, rapturous love for Patti LuPone. If asked, the other kids at Courage House would probably guess he'd been thrown out by his parents -- a reasonable assumption, as it happened to many of them. Kurt treats nearly every conversation with them like a business transaction, and no one seems to care enough to look beyond the veneer of primness and token snark. They don't know him; no one does, really. Blaine doesn't know why he's the exception. He's glad he is.

"I think it's more that someone tends to distract me," Blaine replies, wavering only a little under Kurt's fingers. His mind is finally quieting down, muscles relaxing, coaxed by the heat and pressure of Kurt's body against his.

"Did you just admit to having a short attention span?"

Blaine laughs, only to have it turn into an ungracefully wide yawn. "It's one of those things that short-circuit when you get old."

Kurt catches the yawn through happy, hazy eyes and nudges his nose against Blaine's neck. "I'm keeping you up."

"Mmm, I don't mind," he says, in case Kurt's going to change his mind and feel obligated to leave. Kurt's fingers are still brushing back and forth, tracing near his ribs, winding down as they drift. "You're comfy." He'll have to go back to his bed eventually, before sunrise at the very least, in case anyone gets up early and happens upon him still in Blaine's room, or leaving it. But sunrise is hours of sleep away.

"I drink warm milk when I can't sleep," Kurt confesses. "It's delicious."

It's disgusting, but Blaine isn't about to tell Kurt that. It's also incredibly endearing, and he wonders if it's a hold-over from Kurt's childhood. "I take Tylenol PM," Blaine says.

Kurt scoffs at him, breath a sharp blast that sinks into Blaine's skin. "I hope you don't do it often; it's horrible for your liver."

Blaine's about to answer with a negative (because with the amount of time he spends running himself ragged he rarely needs the extra nudge), but Kurt's fingers, the touch that had faded to a soothing lull in the background, suddenly inch up his chest and freeze. Blaine tenses, but then he realizes -- his chest hair. It tapers to sparse and soft down his stomach, but there's a thicker, wiry patch higher up on his chest.

He's never seen Kurt in anything less than a t-shirt, and now that he's thinking about it (letting himself think about it, more like: he's determinedly shoved his mind back on track when it tried to delve there before), he'd bet this month's electric bill that Kurt is smooth. Pale and supple and hairless all the way to above his -- Blaine should never be allowed to touch him. No one should. He's like some perfect marble angel -- thing, and simultaneously the ideal for the type of porn Blaine doesn't watch.

He whets his lips with a nervous drag of his tongue, struggling to find something to say. 'Weird, right?' 'It's okay if you're freaked out.' He's growing increasingly frantic at the silence, the silence that's his responsibility to fill, and has a half-insane thought that he should offer to shave it off even though the idea makes him cringe, when Kurt quite literally makes him jerk in surprise.

His fingers, his deft, proper little fingers drag themselves through Blaine's chest hair and give an experimental tug.

He does it again, finding a new place to pull at as if he's trying to find what he likes best. It's closer to his nipple, pinpricks of taut pleasure near where he's sensitive. Blaine has spent the last few minutes in a comfortable state of pleasure, not actually aroused but hyper-aware, but now he's shocked to arousal and trying like hell to stave it off.

He shifts his legs under the covers, bumping all up against Kurt's, his heels digging into the mattress. Kurt hasn't pulled again, and it should be a relief but it's only tension unresolved. His cock is getting hard; the way the fabric of his boxers rest against it is a frustrating taunt. He wants so many things -- his hand, an orgasm, Kurt making sweet, gasping noises that are brand new to him, but most of all he wants Kurt's mouth and that's the one thing he'll allow himself to take.

Kurt seems surprised when Blaine uses his hand to push Kurt's face up so he can kiss him, and he realizes dimly that Kurt can't grasp the full scope of what he's doing to Blaine. To Kurt, it's more gentle closeness, but Blaine's too busy sucking on Kurt's lower lip and trying not to dig his teeth in address it.

It takes all of his willpower to ease off the kiss, and as soon as he tries to, Kurt starts to lean in for more, eyes closed and lips parted. He mewls quietly in disappointment when Blaine doesn't move back in.

"Kurt, sweetheart... " Blaine's chest is pounding. He tucks a strand of hair behind Kurt's ear, purposefully light. "You can stay, but we both need to be up early in the morning. Let's try and get some sleep now, okay?" He tries to keep it from sounding too much like a plea. "I'll wake you up a few minutes early tomorrow so you can head back to your room."

"Okay." Kurt curls right back into Blaine's chest, snuggling like a child in to the safety of his arms. "Sweet dreams," he murmurs.

Blaine closes his eyes and tries to recall how to breathe. "Good night, Kurt."

--

The next two days are spent on the phone; drumming up donations is one of Blaine's least-favorite things to do, but for some reason he manages to pull in around double what the rest of the staff does. Blaine must be sacrificing parts of his soul every time he manages to charm or guilt someone into pulling out their checkbook, because when he hangs up he's usually grinding his teeth.

Kurt's been busy too, amping up for midterms and helping Blaine with invitations to the charity dinner in his free time. Necessity dictates that every corner he comes across must be cut, and that means that they make the invitations themselves, on stiff ivory paper ("purple, really?" Kurt drawled, vetoing Blaine's suggestion almost before he'd finished telling him. "You want to go there?"), Kurt working his magic customizing envelopes and Blaine addressing them. It's nearly the only time they see each other. Kurt hasn't sneaked into his room again, and Blaine knows he shouldn't encourage it. They trade subdued, happy smiles whenever they catch sight of each other, even if it's only been five minutes since the last time.

The invitations are all done, finally, and Blaine wants to cherish the small, somewhat pathetic victory.

On Monday, Kurt's home promptly at 3:45, Tracy at his heels and Michael ten minutes behind. Charlie gets to work at four, and Blaine's technically off-shift until the next morning with Mia taking the noc. (She, like a true professional, actually stays up the whole night on the couch, just in case someone might need to talk. They rarely do. After the first year of blinking back sleep and watching MTV, Blaine said fuck it and claimed the spare room as his own for overnights. He feels less bad about that than he should.)

Kurt's doing homework at the kitchen table, Tracy's blaring music as loud as they'll let her, and Charlie's trying to rope Tom into a game of poker with little success.

"It's this or Go Fish, man," Charlie shrugs, and Blaine knows he's getting particular pleasure out of stomping on whatever plans Tom had for the rest of the day. Curfew's nine for the over sixteens on weekdays, which Tom seems to find wholly unfair and keeps finding ways to break. Blaine gets mad when he flouts rules every other day; Charlie gets sneaky.

"I'm supposed to go hang out with friends," Tom protests, and the look on his face could light someone on fire.

"What friends? You have friends? You should bring them over here and we could all play Go Fish together."

"Fuck you," Tom says. "You suck."

"Yay, Tracy doesn't have to do the dishes tonight! That's all you, buddy. Own it."

Blaine barely manages to hold his laughter in check at Tom's increasingly indignant face. If this keeps going, Tom will be doing all the household chores for the week, so he steps in with an "okay, I think it's time for you to go do homework."

Tom turns his irritation onto Blaine. He's less likely to rip Blaine's head off, for whatever reason. "Are you serious?"

"Or you could just go brood at your wall," Charlie offers cheerily.

Tom stomps off to his room, and Charlie just goes back to the newspaper he was reading.

"What time are you making dinner?" Blaine asks him.

"You mean what time is Tom making dinner?" Charlie shakes out the sports section and shrugs. "I don't know, six-thirty, seven."

"Okay." He calls Kurt's name before he even starts toward the kitchen. "Let's go drop these godforsaken invites off and get some coffee to celebrate our achievement. I'll pay." Kurt doesn't have much money; his dad left him some, but the life insurance is tied up and any amount of his trust won't be accessible until he's eighteen. He gets little amounts here and there and saves them up for clothes and the odd bottle of lotion. Never on fast food, coffee, or movie tickets like the rest of the kids.

Kurt, ever himself, doesn't simply drop what he's doing and shove it into his bag. He pulls out his pencil case, shuffles his papers in order before tucking them into a folder, and leaves a bookmark in his History book. "Just give me a moment to put this away and grab my coat."

Blaine waits for him, winding his own scarf around his neck and buttoning up his peacoat. It's early fall, but sometimes Ohio likes to freak out and turn bitterly cold after a week of Indian summer weather. When he hears Kurt's footsteps approaching, he's idly twirling his keys around his thumb. When turns around to see him, the twirling comes to an abrupt end.

Kurt hasn't gone out of his way to dress up; he's wearing his school clothes and just added a camel-colored jacket with a scarf, but his eyes are so bright, and he's cocking his head at Blaine expectantly. "All set?"

"Yeah," Blaine says, reaching for the door handle, when Michael wanders past them on his way to the living room and stops short.

"Where are you guys going?"

"Post Office and the Lima Bean."

Michael purses his thin lips, like he's weighing their plans and finding them lacking. "Can I come?"

Blaine sees Kurt's eyebrow raise, but he doesn't look truly annoyed. It's only coffee, anyway, some quiet time alone in the car together at most; there's no opportunity for anything like what Blaine wants to do with Kurt. He wouldn't even chance kissing him.

Kurt's the one who answers-- "Sure, if you want."

"Awesome," Michael says, grabbing his camo printed jacket from its hook on the wall and pulling it on. "Free coffee."

--

Kurt argues for the job of going in to drop the invitations at the Post Office and wins, haphazardly carrying three thick stacks and a twenty for a book of stamps while Michael and Blaine wait in the car. Michael stares out the window while Blaine flips between NPR and an oldies station on the radio to fill the time, not the silence; Michael's quiet has never bothered him.

The passenger door opens and brings with it icy air and Kurt, who is flushed and flipping down the sun visor so he can check his bangs in the mirror. "Eugh, it was a madhouse in there," he complains, tilting his head this way and that, eyes narrowed in scrutiny. "A little old lady nearly broke my rib trying to get past me to the drop-off slots. I barely escaped with my life." He flips the visor up with a smart snap and looks at Blaine, then Michael over his shoulder. "Coffee?"

"Coffee," Blaine agrees, keeping his ridiculous smile contained and turning off the background murmur of NPR.

The Lima Bean serves rather underwhelming coffee, but Blaine eschews Starbucks whenever possible, and he supposes that supporting local businesses is noble, or something. It's also fairly close to the Post Office, so it's only a few red lights until they're there, Blaine hopping up onto the sidewalk and moving fast so he can get the door for a woman with a stroller.

"Cute baby," Michael says in a sarcastic mutter, and Blaine shakes his head, fighting a smile. Okay, the baby's not -- it's a planet away from cute, in fact, but Michael's assholeishness is terrible and endearing.

"What do you guys want?" he asks instead, tucking his hands in his pockets. "You can get whatever."

Michael heads straight for the pastry case as Kurt answers politely, "Non-fat mocha, please." He's hovering close to Blaine's side, an inch or so too far into his personal space, but he's studying the menu like it's absent-minded, accidental. Blaine knows it's not, that the entire thing is an artifice concealing a messiness between them.

"Hey, Blaine," Michael hollers back to them. "Can I get both that bread thing and one of those scones? And uh, something with whipped cream?"

"Diabetes," Kurt says under his breath.

"You want something else?" Blaine asks Kurt with a tip of his head, absently waving his permission to Michael. Sometimes their relationship feels odd in public. The kids tend to treat him somewhere between a father and a friend, laughing and teasing, but always falling back on his authority.

"No, thank you," Kurt demurs. He rarely takes dessert after dinner, and when he snacks it's only handfuls of granola. It's a long shot, but Blaine's not giving up so easily.

"I want a cookie but I shouldn't eat the whole thing," he says. "And I'm not giving Michael any more sugar. Look, they even have those ones with the sprinkles. Split one with me? Please?"

Kurt fights a smile. "If you insist."

--

"How's school?" Blaine asks the boys, resting his forearms on the table and giving them his full attention. If he were to credit his success at the Courage House towards a particular quality, it's his ability to listen.

Michael stretches his arms up over his head and leans back in the chair. "Shitty. My chemistry teacher acts like I'm never going to graduate if I can't memorize the periodic table. Uh, think he needs a reality check. He still goes to high school everyday too."

"I don't think I remember anything from the periodic table," Blaine says, recalling back to the requisites he had to take in college and how he'd gratefully blocked them from memory. His head needs to carry so many countless things as it is.

"Well, you're not a chemist."

In a lull that follows, Kurt runs his thumb up the side of his cup and looks thoughtful. "I'm thinking of auditioning for the Glee club," he says, in a quiet but clear voice.

The announcement catches both of their attention, but it's Michael who gets his mouth open first. "Oh, that's an awesome idea. It's not enough to live in the Fag House as it is -- you want to glitz it up with some showtunes too?" Michael's tone isn't acerbic, just dry and sarcastic.

Blaine raises an eyebrow at him, but Kurt doesn't look up from inspecting his fingernails. He sounds bored. "I'm sorry that modern medicine has yet to reach a compromise for your particular evolutionary handicap. Maybe in a few years they'll be able to program you to sing and move at the same time. It's safer if you don't try until then -- wouldn't want you to get hurt."

Michael chuckles. "Isn't Hudson, the quarterback, in Glee club? You ever get him to be your boyfriend?"

That gets Kurt's gaze to lift. "Yes, and no. Finn's an idiot. Apparently he thought he got his girlfriend pregnant by sitting next to her in a hot tub. If I ever had any... feelings towards him, they're very well gone." He doesn't look at Blaine, and Blaine doesn't look at Kurt.

Michael gives a shrug and balls up the wrapper for his pastry, wiping a film of sticky sugar from his fingertips. "Too bad, Hummel. He's cute." He flicks the wrapper over to Kurt's side of the table, and Kurt jumps like it's a snake.

Blaine brushes it out of the way, rolling his eyes fondly as he redirects the conversation. "I told you guys I did Glee club in high school, right? I was the lead soloist until another boy came along who looked better than me in the blazer." He smiles at Kurt and gives an encouraging nod. "Audition. You'll love it. It was the best part of high school for me."

"Really?" Kurt's eyes are bright and pleased.

Blaine nods and nudges Kurt's knee under the table. "Let me know if I can help you get ready for the audition."

"I'm thinking of going with something classic," Kurt says, excitement creeping in, animating him by tiny degrees. He rolls a circle with his wrist, swirling the cup in his hand before taking a sip. "Probably Broadway, I don't know."

"Didn't they do Push It at last year's assembly?" Michael asks idly. "That Zizes girl got suspended."

It doesn't seem take the wind out of Kurt's sails. If anything, he looks like he's remembering it fondly. "As if I could forget that."

"You'll have an edge, then. What with your lack of inappropriate humping. You can class up the place."

Blaine wants to ask but he has a feeling this is going to go over his head even with an explanation. He watches Michael and Kurt back and forth through their volleying conversation, as they smile at each other faintly and conspiratorially.

"My sheer talent alone will drag the club from the depths of its current status."

"Your sheer talent will drag your reputation into the ground, you mean."

"I have a reputation?" Kurt asks, sounding surprised and genuinely interested. "What is it?"

Blaine knows he's not going to like what's coming. He isn't proven wrong by Michael's halfhearted shrug and "you know, girly little faggot." Michael drains the last dregs of his coffee and stands up with it, tossing it into a nearby trash bin. He must catch the stricken look on Kurt's face, because he shifts his weight awkwardly and slips his hands into his pockets. "Cheer up; it's better than mine."

"No one there knows you're gay," Kurt says, discarding his air of unease and shock like a jacket deemed unworthy. He isn't back to himself quite yet, but he's not dwelling. "Do they? They don't know where you live."

"Nope, but they know everything else." Blaine wonders what that means. They know that he'd been kicked out, arrested for sleeping in an abandoned building? Or do the inconsequential things add up to ostracism because Michael doesn't fit the mold of an average high school student?

It's clear Michael's ready to go, and Blaine, stuck in pensive, somewhat unsettled silence, doesn't have a reason to prolong their outing.

By the time they're back at the car, it's as though the sour notes of their conversation hadn't happened at all. Kurt ticks off song ideas on his fingers and Michael periodically makes noises from the back seat. Blaine settles his hands on the steering wheel, amazed by the speed of teenage mood swings.

--

Blaine is bopping his shoulders around, playfully singing ABC by the Jackson 5 to the boys as they come back into the house. His attention is a little bit lost in Kurt -- he spent the latter half of the car ride trying to find a song that Kurt would sing with him until he finally struck gold with ABC. He holds the door open for Kurt who has just started to sing the harmony and bumps his shoulder into Michael's as he passes to keep him snapping his fingers to the beat.

He's mid-verse when he realizes that the exterior waiting room isn't empty, and it's still a moment after he pauses that the boys stop jostling each other and grow too quiet.

All at once the weight of responsibility falls back onto his shoulders, and he walks right out of a two-step to offer his hand to the social worker and the woman beside her. "Hi there-- I wasn't expecting to see you today." He glances behind him, and Michael's eyes are downcast, and Kurt has on his showface, blank and slightly disinterested.

"Oh, I'm sorry; I thought Michael would've mentioned it." With one or two notable exceptions, Blaine likes the social workers who come in and out of the House. They're on the same side, he figures. This woman is slight, quick, and efficient, if occasionally dull.

Blaine raises an eyebrow to Michael, the question posed all over his face. The teenager just shrugs and walks over to his mother's side.

"We've been in touch with his mother for a while now, trying to get things all set so Michael can go back home," the social worker explains patiently. "Right now they're both in a good position to be reunited -- I know you two have been working hard to get here." Michael murmurs something unintelligible, but it's Kurt who speaks up.

"You're leaving?"

The adults all exchange looks, and Blaine keeps his emotions firmly in check. "If that's what everyone thinks is best." The best option he has in this situation is to be cooperative and supportive.

Michael draws himself up, tight and forced. "Guess I've gotta grab my stuff." He lopes up the stairs towards the bedrooms, leaving the room quiet in his wake.

Blaine isn't prepared to see Kurt look so stunned, or to feel him stumble back against his chest, instinctively seeking the contact. Blaine rests his hand on Kurt's shoulder, and he knows Kurt is leaning too far into him, but he can't bring himself to say anything, not now.

By the time Michael makes it back downstairs with his backpack and a duffel bag, he's offering platitudes towards Blaine and the carpet -- it's fine, it's only a year until he turns eighteen, his dad isn't allowed on the property, he'll still see everyone at school.

Michael knocks into Kurt's shoulder as some sort of weird teenage boy goodbye, but when he turns to Blaine, the man's arms are already open for him. He draws Michael in close, swallowing down his regret and doubt, offering "Best of luck. Come by and see us," instead. The next words are more intimate, closer to Michael's ear. "Anytime. I mean it."

Blaine feels when Michael nods into his shoulder, giving him a rabbit-quick squeeze before drawing back. "I'll see you guys, I guess." He offers Kurt a nod, eyes darting to his face and away again.

The three of them file through the front door, and the case worker -- Linda, he remembers -- stops to throw Blaine a tired smile. "I might fax over some paperwork," she says. It's a definite that she will. He gets some amount of reimbursement from the state, a stipend, really, and every single penny of it requires extensive, exhausting documentation. With Michael gone, that paperwork needs to be updated.

"All right. Thanks, Linda."

He locks the door behind them, slow and deliberate.

Kurt's got his arms crossed around his middle, the picture of someone protecting himself, and Charlie is standing in the hallway frowning. He adjusts the worn beanie on his head and clears his throat. "Fuck me. That sucks."

"Yeah," Blaine agrees. He tries to rationalize the sensation of hollowness in his chest. This is not the first time he's been reluctant or sad to let someone go elsewhere, back home to where their troubles started. It certainly won't be the last.

"I'm going to make dinner," Charlie announces. "Like a four course meal. I need something to do."

"I have homework to finish," Kurt says in a thick voice, as low as Blaine's ever heard it.

"I'll come get you all when dinner's ready. Hopefully Charlie will finish before our horde of hungry teenagers start a revolt."

That elicits a ghost of a smile from both of them, and they turn and head to separate ends of the house.