Kurt hadn't thought it through. That much was clear. "Come over this weekend. We've got that obnoxious trig homework too," he'd said to Blaine. Like it was nothing. Like this is what friends do. Confidantes. Buddy-ole-pals. Dawgs. Mates. Brothers-from-another-mothers. Homies—

"...just don't know if I can bullshit this and if we have to read it to the class—do you think we'll have to read it to the class?"

"Huh? To the—read wha—oh! Yes. The poem. I—I don't even know." Kurt gulps and digs in his bag for the assignment – oh, let's be honest – for the ruse that brought Blaine here. To lay on Kurt's bed. Face down. Ass...not down. Rounded and firm and there. In the middle of Kurt's bed. With his bare, tanned, muscular legs sticking out of khaki shorts, bent at the knee, that trail down to a slight farmers tan from ankle socks worn for rehearsals to the vague indents from his sandals still visible on the tops of his feet.

Not that he'd noticed any of that about his pal Blaine "Maynard" Anderson. You don't notice those things about your chum. No-sir-ee.

"You okay?"

"Y—yeah. Why?" Kurt finally finds his paper and sits up in his desk chair, kicking his feet up onto the bed trying with all of his might be appear casual. Calm. Cool. Collected. Friendly and scholarly. He runs a hand through his hair and doesn't even care what he just did to his coif that he'd spent entirely too long fixing before Blaine's arrival.

Blaine looks up at what is probably now an odd spike of hair and Kurt rolls his eyes, blindly flapping it back down. "You seem—"

"Tired. I was out too late with everyone last night." Kurt flips his completed assignment onto the bed with Blaine. "Why didn't you come?"

"Tired. Too. Mom gave me an early curfew because I didn't know you'd all go out and—"

"Oh. Will she let you go out with us?"

"If I tell her what's up, she's usually cool with it. I just didn't know. And, like always, you guys do so much more than we ever did at games at Wapak."

"Yeah, it's pretty much constant playing or cheering or screwing around or—I hate football, but I love football season."

"We have to organize a We Will Rock You cheer. It'd be a total waste of Queen at a football game if we don't."

"Just start the stomp-clap rhythm and everyone will figure it out."

"So, this assignment. Reading aloud. I just can't see her not asking us to do that? She read examples all dramatically and I feel like—" Blaine sighs and looks at his paper again. He knows answers to every blank on the page, and yet he can't seem to put one of them down.

"Take a look at mine if you want. I guess I don't have anything to hide from my upbringing, so it wasn't a big deal to write out."

"Will you read it to me? In case we have to—just to see how it works? How it feels that way?"

"I—" Blaine's rolled to his side now, shy-eyed and picking at non-existent loose threads on Kurt's duvet. Kurt can't quite resolve this image of him compared to the happy-go-lucky, occasionally cocky trumpet player that has invaded his every thought and breath and dream. So he takes the paper back and clears his throat. "Sure. It probably sounds dumber this way, but—"

"I doubt that, Kurt."

And Kurt looks at him again, not often hearing Blaine call him by his real name. It sounds so soft and tender, he has to close his eyes and remind himself to breath before he begins the poem. Blaine sits up with a shy, encouraging smile. "Okay. Here goes nothing."

I Am From
I am from designer scarves, from Clinique perfume and Firestone Tires.
I am from hard-earned suburbia...comfortable, inviting, a warm embrace that tells you you're home.
I am from the gardenia, the never-dying poinsettia from Christmas 2000.
I am from Friday night dinners and button-noses, from Burt & Elizabeth Hummel.
I am from the closed-off emotion and deep, unconditional love.
From I will love you no matter what and I'm sorry; your mother is dead.
I am from find the path that suits you. And what if no path does? From how could he create me, then hate me? And mine doesn't hate you – I'll share.
I'm from Lima and Portsmouth. A long line to the British throne, not-quite-perfect roast chicken and create-as-you-go baked goods.
From the teen sweethearts whose souls were bound to the second chances bound by sons.
I am from hallway stairs and attic crates. Two dollar picture frames and mommy brag books. Under dad's bed and on my closet shelf, the home for the only tangible things I have left of her.
I am Kurt Elizabeth Elliott Hummel.

Kurt puts the paper down and blinks once, releasing a tear he had tried to ignore while reading. "Okay, so. That was a little harder to get out than I imagined it would be."

"It was beautiful. Don't change a thing."

Kurt nods and sits down, sniffing and wiping the top of his hand under his nose. "Sorry. Sometimes I can talk about her without any problem. And others—"

"Was the poinsettia hers?"

Kurt shot his gaze up and sniffed again, a huff of a laugh escaping through his parted lips. "You caught that, huh?"

"Quick math— was it her last Christmas?"

"Yes. For a few years, Dad and I would put that thing in the darkest, coldest places in the house we could find. The son-of-a-bitch would not die."

"And you couldn't just throw it out, of course."

"No – it had to go naturally." Kurt rolls his eyes at his and his father's silliness. "But, it's still in the family room. On top of the upright piano that hasn't been tuned since she died."

"Oh. Get that tuned! There's nothing more heartbreaking than a neglected piano."

"It sort of dropped on our priority list. And then I quit lessons and now it's just another piece of furniture to dust."

"You're killing me right now." Blaine grabs at his shirt and gasps, falling dramatically backwards onto Kurt's bed, writhing and moaning and clutching and being a general idiotic jackass.

It levels the drama of the moment perfectly.

Kurt laughs and could kiss— "Do you want—I can go get us some snacks, you dumbass."

Blaine gasps and writhes and wheezes one more time.

"While you...or are you still convulsing?"

"I'm done now. Promise me you'll tune that damned piano."

"Yessir. Do you like lime-flavored things?"

"Is it something you baked?"

"Yes. Lime sugar cookies."

"Then, I love it."

"Blaine?"

Blaine sits up and crosses his legs, putting his hands in his lap, looking again like the perfect gentlemen he is. "Yeah? I'm sorry— I'm being an asshole."

"It's—thank you. For making me laugh when it could have just been awkward."

"I—I guess I'd better get started on mine, then."

"Go ahead and use my laptop. It might be easier to just type it out without thinking too much?"

"I can do the not-thinking-too-much really well."

"I'm not going to respond to that. I'll be right back."

Because he needs to get out of that room. And out of earshot. And to the kitchen where he still feels his mother. Who he doesn't miss every day, but suddenly today, he aches for her.

~~~**~~~

Kurt allows himself a good cry, and sniffles his way through putting together a tray of cookies and iced tea before heading back to his room, stiff-backed and, he hopes, a little less vulnerable. After ten years without her, grief for his mother never comes when expected, and never when it's convenient.

Grief is a cruel mistress.

And right now, there is a cute boy in his bedroom. He hasn't the time for a mistress – of any variety.

When he enters his room, Blaine is busily typing, pausing, biting the side of his thumbnail and typing again. "You like real sugar, right?"

"Yes, please." And he keeps typing and chewing, blindly taking the tea with a nod, stopping only when Kurt places a cookie directly on the keyboard.

"One more..." Blaine moves the cookie with a grin and types away, mumbling under his breath as he finishes, "I am Blaine...Devon...Anderson. There. God, this sucks."

"I bet it doesn't. Eat your cookie. They make everything better."

Blaine grabs the cookies and pushes back from the desk, spinning in Kurt's. "Ooh. Yes. They do. You have a way with—" He stops, staring at Kurt, his head tilted in question. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm—" Kurt sighs and sits on the edge of his bed. "Blotchy face gave me away, didn't it?"

"A little." They eat and drink in silence – only the tinkling of ice against glass heard in the room. "What do you miss most about her?"

Kurt looks up and there he is, Earnest Blaine, staring and inquisitive and if he had a tail it would be thumping rhythmically on the wood floor, waiting for his answer. He's so completely adorable, Kurt has no choice but to answer him, even though he'd much rather move along to Blaine's assignment or to Trig or to practicing or anything else. "All the things she's not around for." Blaine's eyebrows droop and Kurt rushes on because he cannot stand Sad Earnest Blaine. "She never heard me play. Or got to laugh as dad learned how to cook. She never saw the life dad and I were able to make because of her and sometimes it just makes me angry." Blaine's eyes have drooped even more; that has to be fixed. "And blotchy."

"Your blotchy is almost gone."

"Good. Let's see what you wrote."

"Oh. Yeah. Lemme print it off here." And he does and Kurt scoots back on his bed, nibbling another cookie and wondering, as he does in times such as these, if his mom can see the things she's not around for. Like his friends. And his crushes. And his successes and failures and even the day-to-day mundanity of it all. And whether he believes in all of that or not, the idea that she can allows him to continue on and look at Blaine with scholarly interest, surely not anything else – his new bff forever – who is sitting there with his paper looking expectant and maybe a little nauseated.

Kurt quirks a smile and nods at the paper without a word.

Blaine's hand goes up to rub at the back of his neck and he sighs. "You're going to make me read this aloud, aren't you?"

"You made me. Fair is fair." Kurt crosses his arms and his feet at the ankles, his eyes crinkling with a hint of challenge as if to say, go ahead – out angst me – I dare you.

"Fine. I'm not standing up."

"Stop farting around and read."

"Bossy."

"Read." Blaine hesitates and Kurt softly adds, "I'm not going to judge you, Maynard."

"I know. Okay."

I Am From
I am from vintage bow ties, from Vaseline Glass and Armani suits, paid for by Honda.
I am from the broken... Rockwellian, well-to-do, never let them see you sweat.
I am from the ornamental grass, the artificial fern that the cleaning lady dusted – never watered.
I am from OSU football Saturdays and thick unruly curls, from Timothy & Janet Anderson.
I am from the center of attention and emotional stoicism.
From toughen up; be a man and he tries, B. He tries. (I never believe her)
I am from Christmas and Easter and the Anderson pew warmed twice a year, wearing our Sunday best. From disbelief to unbelief to peace in not knowing.
I'm from Wapakoneta, "the east coast" and Europe, clams-on-a-half-shell and tail-gate bratwurst with kraut. Piles and piles of delicious kraut.
From the brother who stars in 2-bit commercials, the abandoned wife and loving mother, the philandering husband and absent father.
From the old house and the new, shoe boxes and piano top, my bedroom collage and cellphone snapshots that hold the true story of my life.
I am Blaine Devon Anderson.

His voice never wavered as he read but his fingers would clench the paper just a little tighter whenever he mentioned his father. His passive mother. The good memories that tend to hide among the weeds of the bad ones.

Blaine lowers his paper and grabs for his iced tea, his eyes focused into the raised glass, probably taking a much larger drink than he needs. And Kurt lets him.

Blaine puts his glass on Kurt's desk with probably more force than necessary, wincing when it and the ice inside of it rings through the room. "Sorry."

Kurt continues to wait until they can connect. Until the ache of writing it down, of hearing it out loud dissipates enough for Blaine to trust him enough to look at him again. And then, "What do you miss most about him?"

Blaine huffs bitterly and gets up, pointing to the bed, climbing on when Kurt curls his legs to himself to give him room. "Sometimes, absolutely nothing."

"But, you just wrote about some good memories."

Blaine nods and looks around Kurt's room, landing on a photograph on his top bookshelf. "Is that her? Your mom?"

Kurt follows his gaze and smiles, getting up to grab the frame. "Yes. The summer before she died." He gives it one last longing look and hands it to Blaine whose eyes grow bigger when he gets a closer look.

"Kurt, you're her spitting image."

"Yeah. I hope I keep her hair because otherwise, I see hair plugs in my 20's."

Blaine chuckles and rubs his hand over his own curls. "I have my dad's hair. Mom's is thick like mine, but only a little wavy. I look a lot like my dad."

"Does that bother you?"

"Motivates me to stop the similarities there." He hands the picture back and smiles. "She's beautiful."

"She was. Of course, what eight-year-old boy doesn't think his mother is beautiful?"

"I can't imagine how hard that was."

"There's a weird blessing in it happening when I was that young. I didn't quite get it. And now, I just miss – well, like I said. I miss the opportunity to share things with her. When I bake, I'm with her. But, otherwise..." Kurt shrugs and he knows it sounds crass and unfeeling, but it's just sort of all he knows. "Otherwise, it's just how things are."

"I had a friend at Wapak who was determined that I grieve and cry and mourn the lack of a dad in my life. I mean, it's not like your situation obviously because my dad chose to be absent."

"I'm thinking your situation is worse. Because of the choice."

"I'd just as soon not have to deal with either, but Sheila – I guess she thought I should have been crawling on all fours in tortured misery because my dad was a jackass."

"Are you sure Rachel wasn't two-timing and going to Wapak too?"

Blaine cracks a laugh. "You know, I guess they are a lot alike." He scoots up to the other pillow against the headboard to sit next to Kurt. " Sheila was about 5'10", heavy-set, short blond hair and played sousaphone. I never made the connection, but everything was an opportunity for drama for Sheila too."

"You have to admire their passion."

"You do. But, I—don't get me wrong. I passionately hated my dad for a long time. Especially when they were talking as if I didn't have a voice about visitation and he's my son too, bitch – like it had ever mattered before and yeah. I was enraged."

"He'd call your mom a bitch right in front of you?"

"Now and then when she'd started standing up for herself. He couldn't handle it."

"Blaine."

"I know. But, somehow I just...gave up on it? I know I gave up on him. I guess when I did, I gave up on the anger too because that shit weighs a ton."

"It does – and if you carry it around long enough, you don't even notice the weight of it. Or how much it's hurting other people." Kurt dares a glance over to Blaine, snapping back to stare at his legs as soon as their eyes meet.

"It's okay – over and done."

Kurt nods and sighs, pulling his legs up to wrap his arms around his knees. "Can I ask you a question? And—it's going to sound like I'm doing exactly what I promised I wouldn't, but I swear to you. This isn't coming from judgment."

"Sure. Hit me."

"Do you think that maybe..." Kurt sighs again and rests his cheek on his knees staring just beyond Blaine. "...maybe you showed off a bit to get his attention? If by not only being the best, but the brightest and the loudest and the one with all the glory, he'd finally see you."

Blaine leans back and sighs. He says nothing and Kurt worries he's been too forthright. Too nosey. Not compassionate or caring or really hearing what Blaine has been saying. "I'm sorry—you don't show-off so much anymore and—"

"No, you're exactly right. It started that way in high school – when things got so bad at home. Dad showed up for homecoming – he's a Wapak grad, too. I had a big solo – freshman year even – and I played it right to him. Fuck shooting for the box. I was shooting straight for him."

"Did he like it?"

"He never said one word to me about it afterward. I got a standing ovation every single Friday night. He never even honored me with a grunt."

"So you played harder."

"And louder. And higher. And the better I played, the more he'd comment on how gay band was. You should stick with baseball. I even tried showing him videos of the greats - Maynard, of course – and Doc, Wynton, Miles and Louis – god, Louis fucking Armstrong. Show him what athletes they are – appeal to that side of him. I showed him Drum Corps International stuff – the Cavaliers and Phantom Regiment and Blue Devils. He was completely unfazed."

"Did you finally just give up?"

"I realized that if I hadn't impressed him by then, I was never going to. So, I stopped trying."

"I know it's no consolation, but my dad goes sort of crazy. He can cheer loud enough for the both of them."

"I look forward to it – if you're willing to share, that is."

"Any time. And I'm glad you kept playing anyway."

"Me too, because by the point that I'd just about given up, Mom had kicked him out of the house. Last marching season. And then, I realized how much music had carried me through it all. All that wailing and screeching and huffing and puffing and growing my range and my skill, I'd not only channeled my rage, but I'd also learned to love music and performing in a way I'd never imagined for myself."

"The great escape. I know it well – it's how I escaped from Doc. I mean, I went all emotive with it—"

"And I went all loud and screamy with it."

"But we're both better for it – although I wish I had your range."

"Why?"

"I just—I'd like to pop off some of those high notes too, you know? Or not have to worry that I'll hit the ones on the page."

"You nail them every time. With grace. I wish I had that."

"Or, maybe we're okay with what we have. No one wants a trumpet section full of you." Kurt laughs and ducks to avoid Blaine's swatting arm. "More tea? We've been sitting too long."

"Yeah. Lemme help."

Kurt unfolded and groaned with a stretch and swallowed thickly when Blaine did the same and a hint of his belly peeked out from under his t-shirt. And then, without thinking, "Snix is coming over tonight to sleep over."

"Oh—do I? Do I need to leave?"

"No! No. I just wondered—do you want to stay? We never get much sleep, but—"

"I don't want to intrude on you guys."

"We've been over this. If you're invited, you're not intruding. Although, lemme check with her first – in case she didn't have something personal to unload, and then you'll stay?"

He doesn't want this day to end. He doesn't want Blaine to leave. To drive off and go home while he's stuck here with his lingering scent – raspberries and freshness and summer – and Santana will wonder why he's acting all stupid and dreamy-eyed. He doesn't want to look at the clock while they work and think, "Only another hour left." And if he's honest with himself, he doesn't want only Santana to snuggle with.

Maybe he can arrange a Kurt sandwich when it's time to turn in and pretend to sleep.

Because that's what comrades in McKinley Marching Titans do, right? They spoon, three to a double bed, under the covers in the dark with whispered giggles, shared secrets and bare legs tangled together and dear god Blaine just say yes already.

"I'll have to drop Mom's car off – and get clothes."

"We can arrange that."

Kurt looks down and bites his lip suddenly nervous at what he's just set up. It could be awkward for any one of the three of them.

"I'd love to stay." Blaine smiles a little more knowingly than Kurt would like to admit and grabs the tray. "You check with Snix. I'll refill our glasses. This Trig homework makes me sweat just thinking about it."