When Kurt and the three street artists met again, Quinn was predictably displeased and Blaine was predictably worried. They were at their default meeting spot, in front of Goldie Oldies, and Sebastian shot Kurt a few warm smiles that had Blaine looking back and forth between the two of them suspiciously.

“I knew it was you from the moment I saw that online article,” Quinn hunched her shoulders, muttering more nonsense to the ground. “I can't believe you pulled something like that off."

“Good thing I took along Princess instead of you.”

Slap.

“D-did you just slap my—?” Kurt whirled around at Sebastian who was holding up a guilty hand, grinning like there was no tomorrow.

“Trust me, it's a compliment,” Quinn snickered. “That means he thinks you're worth his time.”

Blaine bit his lip.

It was technically their second date at a little coffee place called Riley's Roast. They learned each other's coffee order (medium drip for Blaine, grande non-fat mocha for Kurt), and they had a brief battle with credit cards before Blaine managed to worm Kurt's away and pay for their drinks with a triumphant shaking of his shoulders to the pop music playing in the coffee shop. Forced to admit defeat, Kurt reserved a little table for the two of them and watched as Blaine worked his way through the throngs of caffeine-driven citizens, holding a coffee in either hand.

After the Disneyland scandal, Kurt finally came to the conclusion that there was no use pretending Blaine didn't exist. Shockingly enough, Sebastian had helped him.

“You're all so concerned with goals,” Sebastian said, his intonation superior, on the drive back from Disneyland. “That's why you miss out on all the fun you can have for the moment.”

“Getting someone to sleep with you is a goal, isn't it?”

“Focus on yourself, Princess, not me, though you wouldn't be the first.”

“I don't know why I thought you could avoid being egotistical for even a minute.”

“Attraction's not the problem,” Sebastian went on blithely, ignoring the scathing glare Kurt was sending his way. “What you're worried about is the long-term, or if there even is one.”

“I'm starting to see why you have one-night stands. So much easier, hm?”

“If you don't want to be Blaine's bit on the side as he rampages through town armed with paint, then you don't have to do that. But maybe Blaine doesn't want that either, you ever think of that? Maybe that's what he wants to do for now, but it's not like he's going to be a street artist for life. He's the kind of man who wants to settle down eventually and he thinks he's at the age when he should be looking for that.”

“That?”

“The house, the family, the 2.5 kids, you name it. Though if you ask me, he could squeeze in a few more years of fun.”

“Like you?"

“Like me, except I'm in this for as long as possible, Princess. Anyone can tell that you and Blaine are the kinds who want to settle, but don't start predicting your future with him. If it's going to happen, it's going to happen. For now, go on more dates, hold hands and other gushy actions that couples do, and have fantastic sex. Don't think too hard about it. You'll find out if your wants line up one way or another.”

“The way you and Blaine found out your wants didn't line up.”

“Exactly,” the Meerkat said without batting an eyelash.

Now Kurt traced the lines of salt previously spilled on the table before he was fully aware of what he was doing, and then snatched his hand back hastily and wiped it with a napkin to be safe. Blaine scooted into the other seat, depositing their drinks with a flourish. “Grande non-fat mocha for you,” he pronounced, showing his teeth as he smiled.

“Thank you,” Kurt said formally, sipping so that he wouldn't have to start the conversation.

Blaine sat still, hand clutching his medium drip. Finally: “Quinn told me that you knew. About—about Sebastian and me.

Kurt quirked an eyebrow and waited.

“I, um.” Blaine put two fingers to his temple and leaned on them, gazing down on the table. “I get that you're not mad that I have a history or that I'm still hanging out with Sebastian. What she wouldn't tell me was why you were mad at all.”

Slowly, “I wasn't mad. And I wasn't jealous either. Well, a little bit? But no, not that you've had boyfriends or friends with benefits, that's to be expected. I was more worried about our...future. I was afraid that it wouldn't work out because...”

“Because I'm Curly Q?”

“Partially. I was afraid that I wouldn't get along with that part of your life after a while because it's so different from what I'm used to, and I didn't know if I could stand you going out at night for, for the rest of our lives, basically. Sebastian helped straighten the issue for me. There's no point in thinking so far ahead about something I can't control. And I do like you a lot and I understand that graffiti means a lot to you.”

“Well, first off, graffiti does mean a lot to me. But I don't want to keep it up for the rest of my life. The going out and the spray painting and the walls and the police. It's something to do and it's something to help me figure out what I really want from life, but I know for sure it's temporary. And second, it's great that you and Sebastian are getting along, but um...”

“Do I sense jealousy?”

“No! I mean, no. I know what Sebastian's like, that's all.”

“Then you should know that Sebastian doesn't want to settle down, and I want to. At some point.”

Blaine shook his head, helplessly grinning, and covered his face with his hand. “Wow, there's been a lot of miscommunication here. We really need to get better at that.”

“No time like the present to start working on it.”

“So total honesty?” Blaine suggested, lips twisting upward.

“Total honesty. And speaking of total honesty, I have to tell you that I'm flying to Ohio next week. I'll be there for a few days.”

“Are you visiting family?”

Kurt raised his coffee and drank deeply, finishing half of it. His mind raced. “Yes, I am.”

“When will you be back?”

“The twenty-sixth.”

“I should start counting down the days then. Can I see you off at the airport?”

“You,” Kurt enunciated clearly, “can do anything you want. And in this case, I definitely want you to see me off.” They clasped hands on the table and finished their drinks before Blaine insisted on going for a walk to soak in what time they had left together before Ohio.

They ended the date at Kurt's house, cuddling on the couch in front of the TV as Moulin Rouge! played, with Marigold on Kurt's lap and purring the day away. Blaine whispered into Kurt's ear, “May I draw on you?”

“What with?”

“I always carry a Sharpie around, but if you don't want me to...”

“Anything you want.” Kurt's voice was as soft as feathers. “Anything you want, Blaine.”

Blaine captured Marigold's likeness on Kurt's forearm in red Sharpie and Kurt laughed at the ticklish sensation. He signed it “Love, B” with a hint of a blush on his olive skin and Kurt responded by kissing him on the cheek. They petted Marigold and rested against each other as the movie came to an end, their bodies warm with affection and proximity. Kurt turned his mouth to Blaine's ear and it was his turn to whisper, “The spare key is in the potted plant outside. If you have the time, can you check on Marigold when I'm gone?”

“Anything you want,” Blaine reiterated, hazel eyes boring into Kurt's soul.

The red cat hadn't faded by the time Kurt was boarding his plane; he'd taken care to avoid washing the drawing off. It wasn't so much a claim as it was a reminder that he had something to return to besides Timeless (and he was sure that all of his sick days would be used up after this trip, regardless of the fact that he was the owner). Blaine left him with one last parting hug, leaning his forehead on Kurt's shoulder and punctuating it with a squeeze.

“I'll call you when I get back,” Kurt assured sincerely, answering Blaine's embrace and pressing a kiss to the side of Blaine's head.

Blaine finally let go and looked Kurt square in the eye. “Will you be my boyfriend?”

“You're seriously asking me as I'm about to fly to Ohio?”

The street artist winced and chuckled wryly. “I didn't want to jump the gun when we've only been on two dates.”

“Blaine?”

“Yeah?”

“I'm glad you did. Jump the gun, I mean.”

“I am too.”

“But not yet? It's just I'd rather we make it official after I get back.”

“Oh! No, it's no problem. I should let you go. Be safe?”

“I don't think you should be worrying about me,” Kurt grinned, but he stroked Blaine's shoulder one more time and left, surrounded by the clean, purposeful atmosphere of the airport. The process was mechanical as security let him through and he managed to find a fairly nice seat next to the window, listening to the sound of other planes already taking off and the low chatter of little children and the soft hums from the older and more worn passengers. He dozed for most of the technically five-hour flight and the warmth of Blaine's presence was pressed into his skin with something like permanence. Once, he would have kept his eyes outside the window, watching in marvel at the serene white clouds that looked slyly solid, but he'd flown back to Ohio several more times at this point, and then back.

He dreamed of Blaine's unmarred skin and his long lashes, and he wondered when he would fall in love with Blaine because he knew he would. It was only a question of how soon it would happen, be it tomorrow or a hundred years from now, because all times were soon in regards to the subconscious as mingled strains of music mixed with the all-too-quick images of his childhood, distorted and real, imagined and true.

Kurt woke up in the middle of his flight to scramble for pen and paper, designs and colors scrambling in his mind. After roughly ten minutes of a labored frenzy, he went back to sleep.

It was an abrupt process when the flight ended as he unbuckled his seat belt, followed the trail of passengers to the airport in Columbus, Ohio, retrieved his luggage from the baggage claim, and hailed down a cab to take him to the Holiday Inn he always stayed in. The weather was cool and dry, just a touch colder than the sunny days of Los Angeles that he'd grown accustomed to. The cab driver reminds him of his father with a supposed bald head and dark green truck hat, though his voice (if not his speech) was a bit more refined than Burt Hummel's.

“Nice young man like you in Ohio,” he was jabbering away, swerving occasionally and meeting Kurt's eyes in the rear-view mirror, “must be visiting family.”

“I am, actually. How did you guess?”

“Oh, I have a son around your age,” came the jovial answer, “moved out the moment he could and never looked back, not that I blame him, the Midwestern is so small compared to that big city of his—watch that right turn, lady—so the only reason he comes back is to see us old coots—did you just flip me off, man in the big truck?”

“Sounds like he has his life figured out.”

“Sure, but he always has a place with me and his old mama. Nice having a place to go back to.”

The driver tipped his hat at Kurt when they reached Holiday Inn and Kurt gave him a generous tip. Then, pulling his solitary suitcase with him, Kurt went to check in.

It took roughly two hours to drive from Columbus to Lima. Kurt rented a car and now he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, waiting on a red light. In the passenger seat was a bouquet of African irises, his father's favorite flowers because he said they reminded him of Kurt's mother. His mother, on the other hand, preferred tiger lilies because “they have freckles, just like me!”

Kurt didn't remember much about his mother, only her vague form and her sweet high voice. It became more difficult to recall as the years passed and he liked to think that new memories, memories that she would want him to have, were staging a takeover in his brain. Soon, he would forget about anything that happened when he was under eighteen. Or perhaps he would only remember day-to-day events, concerned with only yesterday and tomorrow, his present bracketed like a carefully slotted puzzle piece.

It was a frightful thought as it was comforting because his memories may fade, but so would any ache.

So when he parked the rental car and gazed around the cemetery, irises at hand, a certain melancholy overtook his emotions but no longer the crippling despair that used to bring him to his knees.

“Hi, Dad,” he said when he found Burt Hummel's tombstone. “Long time no see.”

These were the facts:

A month after Kurt graduated from McKinley High School and embarked on his last real summer before college at Ohio State University (which he was going to only because of costs and his father's aging condition), Burt Hummel died from a heart attack.

(Just a week ago, he broke up with his first boyfriend, Chandler. They would never speak to each other again.)

It was a confusing period for Kurt and he couldn't remember part of it. It was blocked, cut off, gone. His recollections of the first moments were hazy, though he sensed a pain in his knees. From constantly falling to the ground. (What he had were two legs, but the invisible support had been family. He didn't have that anymore.) He spent a lot of time in his room, sitting somewhere. On the carpeted floor, the small sofa, his bed, at the vanity. Half the time, he couldn't register anything but the inanimate objects in front of him: clothes, moisturizers, stacks of school worksheets he was going to recycle. The other half, all he could think was, I'm an orphan.

He was eighteen, an adult in the eyes of many, but all he wanted was to be five again and to have both his parents with him, mostly his father because his mother had been gone too long and the ache from that was already faint.

The longer you lived, the more you lost. The longer you lived, the more you had to lose. Wasn't that right?

His aunt, Laurel, arranged for a private funeral and a memorial service for anyone else who wanted to attend. She kept Kurt alive, coaxing him to eat and dress himself and sit in the living room, the TV turned off and the lamps on. Laurel was a beautiful woman, spirited and determined, and she often sat with Kurt, arm wrapped around his shoulder. Sometimes they would fall asleep together, only for Kurt to wake up and panic briefly at the changed surroundings.

“A friend of yours dropped by the other day,” she said one morning as they sat the dining table. Kurt had a bowl of cereal, a breakfast he rarely ate anymore, and twirled his spoon absentmindedly.

“Who?” he asked listlessly.

“She said her name was Mercedes Jones, part of the glee club at your school.”

“My old school.”

“Yes, your old school. She said the glee club offered to sing at the memorial service.”

The thought of the New Directions taking over his father's memorial service, of Rachel Berry brandishing her voice at this one last event for her in Ohio, was almost too much to bear. But people should be sent off with music, music to move and to induce tears, if only for a short period of time.

“Why not,” he said, and his eyes dropped back down to his Cheerios and Laurel silently took his consent at face value.

But he began to balk at the memorial service.

It was scheduled in the evening, at a little church not too far away from McKinley. Kurt was wearing all of the black he could find in his wardrobe: black dress shirt, black vest, black jacket, black tie, black pants, black belt, black boots. He stood off to the side, accepting condolences whenever they were given, and keeping an eye on Laurel who was circulating and conversing. People were chattering and laughing; this was another social event for them. What did they care about Burt Hummel and his quiet life as a car mechanic and his obviously gay son? They wouldn't have to live with his death every day like Kurt would have to, with a painful sort of absence that could only come from familial intimacy. He saw one girl in jean shorts, talking a little too loudly with he friends, and he glared at her until she felt his stare.

He recognized some faces such as his father's employees from the shop and students from McKinley who didn't have anything better to do. Mixed in the crowd were church members, the pastor, and—

“Hi, Kurt.”

Mercedes stood before him, wearing a somber black number with her hair down. She looked sorry and uncertain, a look that Kurt was quickly becoming used to. He could see members of the New Directions scattered around as they waited to go into the sanctuary where the real service was being held. Rachel Berry herself was a small distance away, uncommonly subdued.

Mercedes held a program out to Kurt and he took it with minimal movement.

“Thanks,” he said unnecessarily. Speaking and moving seemed more and more unnecessary as time went on, but he wasn't about to tell Mercedes that.

“Yeah, um.” She inspected her shoes, unable to meet his gaze. “I'll, I'll see you inside. And I'm sorry, Kurt.”

“Don't be. No one's fault.”

“I just don't know what else to say.”

“There's really,” Kurt said, “nothing to be said.”

The sanctuary doors opened and people poured in. Kurt trundled inside, ahead of everyone else, and his aunt led him to the front pew. He saw the podium where the pastor would stand and the stage where people worshiped a being that may very well not exist. Behind him, he saw a sea of black jackets and skirts find seats and squish together like packs of sardines. Then he forced himself to look ahead, impassive as people settled around him.

He was deaf and blind to the pastor's opening message and the stories from friends (the former shop employees) and family (Laurel). Instead, he waited as all men must wait for the moment when the veil in front of their eyes lift and all was clear and obvious.

Then it was time for Rachel Berry's solo. “Fire & Rain,” by James Taylor.

Accompanied only by a piano, she sang.

Just yesterday morning, they let me know you were gone

Suzanne, the plans they made put an end to you

I walked out this morning and I wrote down this song

I just can't remember who to send it to

Some of the women and girls were crying. Because of the music, because of death, because of sadness invoked tears, because of the world. It didn't matter if they were crying for his father or not (a small fact: they were not) because there were far too many things in the world to cry over or about. It only made sense that people should either drown in their tears or be as stoic as a stone wall.

I've seen fire and I've seen rain

I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end

I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend

But I always thought that I'd see you again

Suddenly, he felt sick to his stomach. He wanted to rip people from their seats, cast them on the ground, rebuke them. You do not mourn, he wanted to shout, you do not get to mourn when I have not mourned, not yet, not properly. Who were they to cry when he could barely stand to see his features in the mirror, thinking that Burt would never see him become a man, fall in love, live?

Because that was the point. He would have to live with it.

Kurt didn't wait for Rachel to finish and for all of the New Directions to go up the stage, ready to sing “Seasons of Love.” He didn't even give Laurel a clue as to what he was doing. No, he merely stood up, brushed the lint off of his pants, and calmly (like a ship) walked down the center aisle, clear of chairs, out the doors of the sanctuary and the doors of the church (followed by the whispers of the masses, but what were they to him? What were they to anyone? An embodiment of a general consensus, of ordinariness, of extraordinariness—of nothing).

Once outside the church, he leaned over, bracing himself on his knees, breathing in the summer air and desperately trying to contain the wracking sobs that threatened to overtake his body.

He was out.

(He had to leave.)

This wasn't where he needed to be.

So he left.

(Of course, it wasn't as simple as that. He wasn't going to Ohio State University anymore, no sirree. The house? Laurel could keep it, sell it, rent it out, hell if he cared. His Navigator was still his, still his car, still a relic of his father. What else to take? Clothes, clothes... He was eighteen, he was his own guardian, he would make it, if not on Broadway, then in life. He would make it.

He drove far, far away, thinking that he could escape if only temporarily.)

My name is Kurt Hummel. I am eighteen years old. I lost my mom when I was eight and my dad when I was eighteen. I am still eighteen. I will not stay eighteen. Not for long.

Kurt spent a total of three days visiting his parents, though most of his thoughts were directed to his father. For the first two days, he stuck to safer topics like his job, his friends, updates on anything of importance in his life. There were stretches of time when he simply sat on the ground, unmindful of the dirt and insects, and listened to the sound of his breathing and the wind winding through the trees. Being in the cemetery now brought Kurt a sense of tranquility that could only come from many long months of struggling with old grievances. He was happy now—happier in comparison.

On the third day, he finally talked about Blaine.

“A bit vertically challenged,” Kurt teased his father. “You would have liked that, it would have been so easy to intimate him. Oh, but he likes football. You'd have liked that even more. You would have liked him period, Dad, even though you were afraid of talking about boys at first.

“I'm going home tomorrow, Dad. It's still so easy to forget that I don't live here anymore, with you. Do you think I grew up faster than I had to? Because I think I did, and it was so fast that I barely had time to regret it. I do regret it.

“But I like where I am right now. I'm not in New York or on Broadway, and I still—I still want. I've learned, though. To settle. Is that such a bad thing?

“Oh, but don't worry. I definitely didn't settle for Blaine. He's...he's Blaine. I'm glad I met him. He makes me want to, oh, I don't know, pursue my dreams again. Do more for the world. He's that kind of nice, dapper gentleman. Maybe not everything he does is squeaky clean, but remember how you told me about the time you stole your dad's car and almost ran into a stoplight? He's like you. You loved cars, so sometimes you bent the rules to do what you loved. He loves what he's doing right now and it would be temporary. Because he's that kind of gentleman and he wants to do more for the world too.

“I can see a future with Blaine, sometimes. It's still hazy and in the far distance, don't you worry, but you know me. I don't casually date and I, I want to find a partner I can be with for the rest of my life. If I had what you and Mom had, then I know you'd be happy. And I would be happy.

“I should go now. I promise I'll be safe and that I won't get into too much trouble. Say hi to Mom for me. I'll visit soon.

“Bye.”

When he was finally home, suitcase unpacked and Marigold purring against his legs, he had to sit down on the couch and catch his breath. He rubbed his face, wincing at his dry skin, and reached for his cell phone. At this time, Blaine would probably be at work and might not pick up, but it didn't hurt to leave a message.

"Hey Blaine, I just got back from Ohio and I'm exhausted, but please feel free to call me whenever because I haven't heard your voice in months...a few days, but still. Call me. Missed you.”

The apartment was again filled with silence except for Marigold's continued purring as she butted her head against him. He smoothed her ears and scratched under her chin to keep her occupied. He ought to take a shower or at least wash his face, even do some laundry or stock up his refrigerator with groceries. On the other hand, the prospect of leaving his seat to return to his busy routine made him sink further back into the sofa, head pillowed on the edge. His cat curled into his lap, getting hair all over his vest, but he smiled sleepily down at her.

“You know someone is lonely when they get a cat,” he murmured to Marigold. Her eyes were luminous.

So on a whim, he called Mercedes Jones.

After McKinley, they'd kept minimal contact. Eventually Mercedes went to the West Coast as well in order to take a job offer as a backup singer. She was currently with a fairly well-known label, making her way as a solo artist and with one album out. She was hardly Whitney Houston or even Kelly Clarkson at this point, but she had a small and devoted fan base that stalked her on Twitter and Facebook. Kurt was one of her few non-celebrity friends and had the privilege of knowing her personal number, though he rarely used this privilege since he imagined she was immensely engaged. Her second album was in progress and she was starting to attend a few more interviews, and no doubt her schedule was hectic.

But Kurt Hummel wasn't quite a cynic, not yet, and he believed that he was still one of her closest friends, perhaps even more so because he was removed from the glitz and glamor.

His few qualms were set aside when she answered, “What up, Hummel?”

It was so good to hear her voice. Not as good if it had been Blaine, but beggars couldn't be choosers. “Well, if it isn't Mercedes Jones. How has the paparazzi been? Hospitable?”

There was an audible groan. “Did you see it?”

“See what?”

“Nothing,” came the too-quick answer.

Kurt tapped his foot, then remembered that Mercedes couldn't see it. “Mercedes.”

“All right, so I went to this nearby Forever 21. Thought I could just pop in, grab a couple of shirts, and wear my shades and hat so no one could see me. Then the sweetest little girl grabbed me and started blabbering about how she was such a fan and could I sign her arm with a pen or something, it was so sweet, but my cover was blown—”

He listened to the rest of the story with interest because Mercedes still wasn't completely adjusted to her growing fame. She deserved her success, and it helped that he didn't feel quite as many pangs of jealousy that tormented him so much when it concerned Rachel Berry.

Finally, she stopped to take a breath and ask, “How about you, Kurt? How are you doing with your store? I really should stop by when I have the time, you have the best advice.”

“We're doing fabulously, Mercedes, but I actually called about something else.”

“Oh?” Her tone shifted; now all of her attention was on him.

Kurt took a deep breath. “I met someone.”

“A man?”

“His name's Blaine,” Kurt continued, unable to keep any giddiness out of his voice. “Blaine Anderson. I met him almost two months ago. He's very charming, Mercedes, and he wears a lot of bow ties. Sometimes I think he was born in the wrong time period, but then I wouldn't have met him.”

“Boy, you're head over heels, aren't you?”

“Wha—no, no, I'm not. I'm not losing myself over someone, it's just so easy with him. Mostly easy, anyway. I never thought I would meet someone like him. There's something very wholesome about him. He's very earnest."

“So you've found yourself a boyfriend. We need to drink to that.”

“We're not actually dating yet. I mean, we are. But not boyfriends yet.” Not like he hasn't asked.

“How many dates have you guys been on?”

“Um.” He knew he couldn't lightly divulge Blaine's other identity, but did their late night excursions count? Most likely not. “Officially, two dates. But we've met informally for breakfast and coffee and, uh, where we work. Oh, Mercedes, he works at a pet store. It's cute, he's like a puppy himself.”

They talked for another half hour and Kurt spent most of the time elaborating on the more harmless aspects of his possible relationship with Blaine. Mercedes was suitably enthusiastic because Kurt never really gushed about his past few boyfriends. It was all mixed up in a bundle of what he could have been, what he could be doing, what kind of people he could be meeting. To appear happy where he was right now at this moment was to give up on that dream which he still clung to, chanting to himself that it was never too late to start because if you never started, you didn't have to fear failure but you also didn't have to fear staying in one place for the rest of your life. It was noncommittal and saddening, but now.

But now it was all right. He wanted to do right by Timeless and by Blaine. He wanted to put in renewed effort in the two good things in his life because no matter what anyone else said, he had succeeded in life. How could he ask for any more?

When Mercedes bid him farewell, she asked one last thing, “So is he any good in bed?”

“Very. Loves cuddling, doesn't snore, great heat source,” Kurt answered evasively, although a snort escaped from him.

“Kurt.”

“I'll let you know when I find out.”

“I'm holding you to that.”