School was always terrible without Blaine to look forward to after his last class. History seemed twice as long as normal, and he was honestly contemplating death by eraser in math.

After math came lunch, and that dreaded walk from one end of the building to the other, where the cafeteria was located. And sure enough...

"Keep the gay to yourself, homo!"

Splat.

Cold. Wet. Ice.

Kurt grimaced as he felt some of the sickly sweet syrup drip down his forehead. Squinting, he stumbled toward the nearest bathroom, praying that there wasn't anyone there to do any more damage. Thankfully it was empty, and Kurt exhaled a sigh of relief, making some of the ice chunks suspended on his chin fall and shatter on the floor.

He inhaled a shaky breath as he braced his hands on the sides of the nearest sink, and tried to convince himself that the tears in his eyes were from the excess sugar. With trembling lips, he turned on the hot water and ducked his head under the faucet, shutting his eyes tightly as he felt the remnants of the slushie wash from his hair. A moment later, he braved opening his eyes and saw that the water was running clear. With an almighty effort, he raised his head, grimacing as the water ran down his neck and into his collar.

Kurt poked halfheartedly at the bright green stain splashed across his neck and chest. With quick efficiency, he whipped out his Tide-to-Go stick and rubbed the spot to less alarming shade of neon. Thankfully his black overcoat got the majority of the slushie; the green didn't show up on that anyway.

Finished, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, his mood lifting marginally when he realized he still had twenty minutes left for lunch.

He left the bathroom, a little shaken, but with his nose raised defiantly in the air. He only had a couple of months left. He could do this.

Embarrassingly enough, he spent most of French doodling K+B in the margins of his notebook. It wasn't like he needed to listen to Madame Moore anyway, he was basically fluent after watching Amélie for that whole summer after eighth grade.

Glee club was no better than the rest of his day.

"Listen up! As your Glee Club Captain-"

Santana held up an outraged finger to point at Rachel. "Hold up, hobbit, I don't remember ever electing you captain of this raggedy team of American Idol wannabes," she interrupted, looking up from her nail file.

Kurt snorted.

"Well, Santana," Rachel began sanctimoniously, "As the lead soloist-"

"And I don't remember electing you for that either. Now, if you don't want me going all Lima Heights Adjacent on your ass-"

"Girls, girls!" Mr. Schuester cut in hurriedly, "What I think Rachel is trying to say is that we should get the lesson started."

"Hmph!" Rachel sniffed as she sat back down in her seat.

Santana rolled her eyes, and Kurt briefly shared a commiserating look with her before she exclaimed, "Jesus, Tinkerbell, what are you looking at me for? Do you want a piece of this? Because I gotta say, your ladyface is seriously turning me off."

"I liked it," Brittney interjected thoughtfully. "It was really soft when we were making out."

Kurt flushed, and Mr. Schuester coughed embarrassedly. "Like I said, let's get started, shall we?"

The lesson itself was nothing special, and Kurt was glad when it was over. Artie had accidentally rolled over his foot twice, and Kurt's boots, while fabulous, weren't all that sturdy enough to withstand multiple wheelchair attacks.

It was late when he got home, so he spent the rest of the day doing his homework and eating dinner with his dad.

The next day passed in very much the same fashion, minus the slushie during his walk before lunch.

"Watch it, Lady!"

Shove.

Clang. Bang. Ouch.

Suffice to say, Kurt really hated that long hallway after math.

So, it was bruised and a little more worse for wear, that Kurt pushed open the doors of the Lima Bean. But he forgot all that crap of the past two days when he caught sight of Blaine, sitting in his usual chair in the back corner, beaming like Christmas had come early.

Kurt gave him a small wave, conscious of the other patrons of the Lima Bean who would only see him wave at an empty table. Blaine returned the gesture as Kurt moved to stand in line for his standard mocha.

"How was your day?" Blaine asked politely as soon as Kurt was within hearing range.

Kurt shrugged. "Same old, same old," he said offhandedly, avoiding Blaine's gaze as he fiddled with the lid of his coffee.

Blaine raised his eyebrows. "You do know that I have no idea what the 'same old' is for-" he snorted out a laugh, "-you youngsters these days."

"Oh because you're so ancient, Blaine," Kurt retorted, a smile curling up the corners of his mouth.

Blaine immediately adopted an affronted look. "I was born in 1941," he said seriously. The corner of his mouth twitched and threatened to break into a smile before he clamped it down. "A couple days before Pearl Harbor, if you want some perspective. Show your elders some respect."

Kurt's eyes widened. "You're definitely the oldest ghost I've ever met. And yet here you sit, youthful looking as ever," he said with a sigh. "If only my skin will look that good when I'm-" he broke off, thinking. "Seventy? Something like that. You've seen a lot."

Blaine grinned. "Yes I have," he agreed.

"Wait," Kurt said slowly, "So if you were born in 1941 and died in, what, 1959, how old were you?"

"Seventeen," Blaine said promptly. He smile turned wistful. "In the prime of my life." He shrugged as his eyes drifted down to the table between them. "Death hasn't been that bad, really. Because travelling isn't that difficult, I even got to see the royal wedding."

Kurt nearly spat out his coffee. "Oh my god. You did not," he exclaimed, setting his coffee down on the table with an audible thwack. "I couldn't even stay up until it aired on TV the next day after school because an idiot old man – who was a mouth breather, I might add, which is stupid because ghosts don't need to breathe anyway – had to tell his widow the code to his tax returns for 2002."

"Wait a second," Blaine asked, his eyebrows raising in surprise. "How old are you?"

"Um, seventeen? Just like you." Kurt blushed. "Um, kind of. Why?"

"Were you even born for the royal wedding?"

Kurt snorted. "Maybe you died from early onset dementia, Blaine. The wedding was only a couple of years ago."

Blaine smirked. "I wasn't talking about that one."

Kurt bit his lip. "You cannot be telling me you went to England to see Princess Di's wedding," he said in a hushed voice.

Blaine simply hummed happily. "Best trip ever," he sang quietly under his breath.

"Oh my god!"

After that, Kurt badgered Blaine with questions about the wedding and England in general, having never left the US. Blaine answered them all patiently, his eyes animated and his smile bright. They praised and debated in equal measure, each boy stubborn in his own convictions, no matter how much persuasion the other offered.

"But Princess Diana's dress – I liked eighties fashion," Blaine was arguing twenty minutes later.

Kurt shook his head violently. "It's Princess Di, of course she was fabulous; she was royalty. But, the eighties were an eyesore on the fashion timeline, Blaine. There's no excuse for that many clashing colors and frizzy hairstyles. Plus, I don't think you're in any place to comment about fashion, Mr. Blazer."

"Hey!" Blaine exclaimed, "The Dalton Blazer is tradition," he affirmed, straightening his lapel with one hand.

Kurt rolled his eyes. "When was the last time you even opened Vogue?"

Blaine ducked his head bashfully. "Maybe 1957?" he hedged. "I remember getting my mother a subscription for her birthday one year. I haven't really kept up, to be honest. But," he began warningly, "I have eyes, and I was around during those years. I didn't have to read about them in magazines. I liked the bright colors."

"1957?" Kurt echoed in a strangled voice, completely ignoring everything Blaine had said after that. "Well," he began, turning in his seat to draw his messenger bag onto his lap. "That has to be remedied. Immediately," he added in a threatening sort of voice. He drew out his most recent copy of Vogue that he carried with him. "This," he said, jabbing a finger at the cover, "Is my bible, Blaine. My bible," he repeated reverently, as if Blaine hadn't understood the first time, "And you haven't – my god-"

Kurt missed Blaine's small smile, too engrossed in explaining and critiquing Alexander Wang's most recent collection.

The Vogue magazine occupied their time for the next half hour. Kurt looked up every few seconds, his blue eyes sharp as they gauged Blaine's expression for any sign of boredom or exasperation, but all he ever found was quiet interest and a fond smile. Blaine mostly listened, but every once in a while he would offer up his own opinions.

"Well," Kurt said, flipping the back cover shut, "That should do it."

Blaine nodded earnestly. "Thanks, Kurt," he said. "I didn't know what I've been missing."

"A lot, I'd say," Kurt replied dryly. "And that's only one issue." It suddenly occurred to him exactly how long he'd been talking. With a sinking feeling, he pulled out his phone to check the time. "Crap," he muttered as he shoved his phone into his jacket pocket. "I've got to go. Dad expects me in the garage in twenty."

"Already?" Blaine asked, his face falling.

Kurt's heart soared. "Unfortunately," he said, grimacing. "I'm sorry we spent so much time talking about England and fashion." He bit his lip nervously before continuing, "We should've been talking about helping you move on."

Blaine shrugged. "I'm not sorry." He let his eyes drift to meet Kurt's. "I've been trying to move on for the past fifty years, Kurt. Anything that distracts me from that is a welcome reprieve. And hey," he said, frowning, "I liked learning about fashion. I always wanted to, but never had the opportunity while I was alive." His normally chipper smile dimmed. "We'll talk about that other stuff next time, okay?"

"Oh," Kurt breathed. "Okay then."

Blaine sighed. "I'll see you then?"

"Definitely. I have glee practice on Fridays, so I'll be a bit later than normal," Kurt said apologetically as he got up from his chair.

Blaine nodded. "Have fun."

Kurt began to gather his things. He slipped his arms into the sleeves of his coat and wound his scarf around his neck with practiced precision.

"Oh and Blaine?" he said as he turned to go, "As far as I'm concerned, you are not the 'lamest ghost around.' In fact, I think you're the single most interesting ghost in all of Ohio."

Without further ado, he turned to leave so Blaine couldn't see him blushing to the roots of his perfectly coiffed hair, but that also meant he didn't see Blaine's wide eyes or his absurdly pleased smile.

And so meetings with Blaine Anderson, resident ghost of the Lima Bean, became a regular thing for Kurt. Nearly three times a week, he'd walk in to find Blaine in his corner, and they'd chat until Kurt had to go to the garage to work. Days without Blaine were dull at best and nightmarish at worst. Maybe it was because he was a senior, but the jocks seemed to bully him extra hard this year to get one last kick in before Kurt graduated and left McKinley for good.

Kurt found refuge in the Lima Bean, in Blaine. For once, he could shove all his problems away and focus on somebody else. He could let himself forget about all the crap he had to deal with during the day.

Every so often, Kurt would broach some topic related to helping Blaine move on, but Blaine never showed much enthusiasm for Kurt's ideas, and to be honest, Kurt never pressed the issue much. He liked having Blaine around. Yes, his reluctance to do his job and help Blaine move on sometimes settled like a dead weight in the pit of his stomach, but he could always forget about his guilt every time he saw Blaine's eyes light up as Kurt spied him from across the Lima Bean.