Even though there was nothing ostensibly different about the last day in Ohio, to Blaine every mundane event felt momentous, as though he could feel the minutes ticking away with each passing instance of unwelcome, formalized banality. As he ate lunch alone at the deserted table, he felt almost giddy at the knowledge that, at this time tomorrow, eh would be eating a lovely – albeit prepackaged – meal in the company of a hundred strangers in far less silence. His afternoon lounging on the settee, reading Proust and wishing he could understand any of it, made him smile as he realized he would see the book’s owner in only 24 hours. He could ask Peter what all of this meant then, because he was pretty sure the sentence he had just read had begun at least six pages ago, and he had gotten lost somewhere in the middle of it.

Peter had been right, Blaine smiled to himself, a tiny bit of pride starting to creep over him. He had made it. He had been okay. Well…maybe okay was too strong of a word. He had been miserable for six out of the seven days, his mood improving only as he neared the end of his trip. Three of those days he had only emerged from his room for dinner, where getting dressed had felt like an insurmountable obstacle. But he had made it. He hadn’t accepted dates – or more – from any girls. He hadn’t gotten drunk and tried to enjoy blissful, nostalgic numbness in the touch of some daughter of a family friend. He had neither combusted nor broken into an inappropriate musical number during any of the unbearably stuffy family meals, and that included Christmas dinner and its eight courses of alternating small-talk and silence. He had thought for sure he wouldn’t survive it, but he had.

He wouldn’t’ have a few months ago. A few months ago he would either be ready to crawl into his father’s office or engaged to the first “acceptable” girl he saw. Or drunker than his mother. Now…he could be okay. He never wanted to come back, no, but even a week with his parents hadn’t been enough to convince him that there was something wrong with him again. As silly as it sounded, he was really proud of that.

And he hoped Peter would be, too. He had been really worried at the airport, and Blaine couldn’t wait to show him his progress. Maybe they could even go up to the city to celebrate, since they would be more than halfway there anyway.

At exactly half past five, Blaine closed the book he still didn’t really understand and went upstairs, content in the knowledge that this would be the last time for the foreseeable future that he would need to shower twice a day – once in the morning and once before a meal with exactly two other people. Even tying his necktie brought a sense of liberation as he reminded himself that he could switch back to bowties practically as soon as he landed in California. And no more sportcoats or wingtips…he smiled broadly as he slicked his hair to the side and pressed it into place.

The oppressive stillness of the dining room felt more tolerable with the knowledge that he was almost gone from it all, so much so that the question, “How was work, dear?” didn’t even register; it wasn’t until Blaine heard his father begin to answer that the old queasiness hit him.

“A difficult case came in this morning. A college boy who, thanks to the destructive influences of the big city, has been getting more and more severe. His parents were practically beside themselves when he returned home last week.”

Blaine froze, caught off-guard by the sudden jolt of panic at the mere mention of someone like him. It had been months since he had felt so frozen at the idea that-…that what, exactly? That he was sick? Or that someone would know he was sick?

Except he wasn’t. He wasn’t sick at all, that was the thing. He was complicated. He was different, which to people like his parents might be a fate worse than death, but to him was something interesting. He was jazz in a world of Bach, that was all – and he would rather be an unconventional genre of music than silence any day.

But his father didn’t understand that, and so that poor boy-

Blaine wondered if he knew him. Maybe it was a boy Blaine had seen before – at Dalton, maybe, or in town, or…at the drive-in? were there boys his age there? He didn’t think so, he only remembered men older than him and Kurt-

Kurt.

Oh no- he swallowed hard at the thought of the beautiful, strong, proud boy sitting cross-legged in his father’s office, refusing to deny who he was, flat-out stating that there was nothing wrong with him…his father would torture the poor boy until he almost broke, Blaine knew, and if Kurt didn’t break, he would-

College, his father had said, Blaine reminded himself, trying to calm his racing heart; not “college-aged,” the boy was actually enrolled. Or he had been enrolled, anyway. Who knew what would become of him now, such a “severe and difficult case.” He certainly would be prohibited from returning to the city. He probably loved it there, finding others like himself…Blaine wondered if the boy had found safety there. If police were awful it was one thing, but if the boy had found genuine happiness and safety only to have it ripped away by a gentleman whose entire life was built on hiding and conforming-

“How can you do that to him?” Blaine blurted out before he could stop himself.

There was silence for a moment as both adults turned to stare at him, stunned by his outburst – or at least as stunned as the two of them could be. His father’s eyes narrowed, and as he spoke his words were neatly clipped, his tone low and forced even. “What was that?”

Blaine swallowed, his father’s glare enough to make him nervous, but he couldn’t turn back now. “He was happy at college in the city, wherever he was, and you’re going to isolate him and tell him how sick he is. But there’s nothing wrong with him. How can you take these men and make them miserable? Isn’t that against what medicine is meant to do? What about the Hypocratic Oath?”

“Enough, dear.” He could hear his mother chastise him quietly, but he couldn’t stop himself. Not after so many years of feeling so awful, of wanting so badly to be anything except what he was. And it was all their fault – all his fault, and the people like him. If his father could just let people be – or at least let the men who were happy with themselves remain that way…

He could have had so many things if his father hadn’t spent so many years talking about men who were “sick.” He could have believed Kurt and those studies the boy tried to show him. He-…he could have let Kurt love him. He could have let himself believe in a future, in happiness, in something other than a life of miserable marriage or psychiatric wards. He could have been happy all these years instead of drowning in a sea of liquor and women he wished desperately he could love. “You’re doing more harm to them than you can even imagine,” he stated, getting angry now. “You don’t even-“

“Blaine. Enough.”

He didn’t want to stop speaking, to back down, but he couldn’t overcome the authority in his father’s voice. He fell silent, staring sullenly at his half-eaten bowl of soup, unable to say or do anything but still seething.

“I see college has influenced you for the worse, too."

For a moment, Blaine wanted to say it. He could, he knew, just blurt out all the ways college had changed him. He could list every bit of good Peter had done to undo a decade’s worth of torment inflicted by the man at the head of the table. It would stun his father, Blaine was sure, and show him-…show him what, exactly? That homosexuals weren’t sick? That sick people could come from good families and appear normal? That he was his own man and wouldn’t play by their rules anymore? He didn’t know if it would do any good, but he would certainly feel better to say it-

…right up until they cancelled his ticket home and kept him here, under the care of one of his father’s colleagues, to prevent him from being surrounded by such destructive influences in California.

He liked to think they couldn’t do that, but he knew better. They could keep him here in a heartbeat. If his father could turn his mother into a robot, he was sure the man wouldn’t hesitate to do the same to him –e specially after an outburst at the dinner table. If he wanted to get out of here tomorrow, he needed to keep his mouth shut, even as much as he itched to say something.

The silence continued through the main course, both adults unwilling to bring up such an unfortunate outburst again and Blaine unable to say anything else for fear of what they might do to him. By the time the roast beef was cleared, he couldn’t’ take any more and gathered the napkin from his lap as he stated, “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll skip dessert tonight. I have a lot of packing to do.” It was a lie, of course; he had been repacking all day, too excited by the prospect of going home to stop himself. Still, it was far more polite than telling his parents he could no longer even pretend to bear their company. Neither of them replied or so much as looked at him, and he took their silence as tacit permission.

Blaine started out of the room and had almost reached the threshold of the dining room when he heard his father speak. “Blaine.’ He turned, surprised. His father’s voice was even as he asked, “Which do you think a leaper would rather have: missionaries to tell them they don’t look so bad, or a salve one could rub on his skin to cure him and stop his contagious symptoms? One is kindness; the other, a cure.”

“But they’re not-“ Blaine began to protest, but he was cut off.

“We’ll discuss it tomorrow. Good night.”

And that was the end of that. Frustrated beyond words by it all, Blaine ascended the stairs and closed his door before flopping dejectedly back on his bed.

He would be home tomorrow. Unless his father was able to let his own willful blindness be pierced by his anger at Blaine disrupting dinner…or unless Blaine couldn’t’ bite his tongue when they talked in the morning… he would be home by the time tomorrow. T hen everything could go back to feeling normal by his standards instead of this artificial fa�ade of ‘normality’ he had been stuck in for too long.

* * * * *

He couldn’t sleep.

He tried – oh how he tried – and he knew that the more he slept, the sooner it would seem like he could leave, but he just couldn’t. He couldn’t relax enough to even come close to dreamland, replaying the dinner conversation over and over in his mind.

What had made him snap like that? He had managed to survive dinners with them for decades without reacting like this. Why had this been so much harder than he was used to? He guessed it wasn’t that hard to figure that part out: he had been convinced his father was right before, and now he knew better which made it a lot harder to listen to. Not wanting to hear what horrible fate awaited a person was one thing; not wanting to hear the antiquated, ignorant justifications for making men hate themselves was another.

He hadn’t meant to take it so far, but he couldn’t. He wondered if that had been what made his father introduce his mother to the devastating world of psychotherapy. He remembered something about her screaming and how it made a scene, but he didn’t remember about what – had she finally had enough of the elder Anderson’s straight-faced lies, too? Told him she was sick and tired of him being such an awful person? Because while the amount she drank was questionable, he somehow doubted her objection would be the same as his; he had more in common with his mother than he felt comfortable admitting to, but he doubted they shared that particular secret.

Besides, his father had never treated a homosexual woman that Blaine could recall, so he was sure that wasn’t what his mother had done that was so wrong.

Would he be a zombie by tomorrow night, too? Or would he just be taken straight to a hospital to be shocked until it felt like his brain was frying like an egg?

Blaine swallowed hard, finally giving up on sleep. After what felt like an eternity pacing his room quietly and staring at pages of his book without seeing even a single word, he crept downstairs at 7:30. He paused on the stair, listening for voices that might indicate his father had brought a colleague to assess him, to take him away and lock him up for some illness they created and thrust upon him, but he heard nothing. Not even the quiet clink of a spoon against a cereal bowl or a sip of coffee – that was strange. His father was always up by now, but as Blaine crept downstairs and peeked into the dining room as subtly as he could, he saw no one. That was strange – had his father slept in? For a man who was generally awake at 6:15 and often out of the house before 8, that would be incredibly strange, even during a slow week like this one. Curious, Blaine padded into the front hall and found his father’s coat and bag gone.

It seemed odd that his father would go out somewhere to bring back someone to help cart him away; it would be much easier to send him to a psychiatric ward if he convinced him to get into the car somehow first. Unless…

…Maybe his father wasn’t plotting to take him away. Maybe he honestly didn’t understand why Blaine had finally exploded at dinner. Blaine stared at the empty spot where the coat should have been, confused. How could his father not even suspect? He treated homosexual men all the time, and even though Blaine was glad to be going home safe and sound, he had to admit it felt…too quiet. Anticlimactic. His mother had had one outburst that, for all he could remember, may not have even been directed at his father, and she hadn’t been the same since. He got a ‘promise’ to talk about it in the morning that never came to fruition?

If his parents were other people, Blaine might have thought that they had finally realized that he was indeed his own man, his own person, and that they couldn’t control what he believed about the world or the nature of people or illness anymore. But after the way his parents had guilt-tripped him into coming out for Christmas, complete with passive-aggressive letters from his mother and plane tickets sent months in advance, he knew that couldn’t be true, particularly considering the way his mother had spent half the party trying to fix him up with a nice, respectable wife. Which meant, as far as Blaine could tell, one of two things: either his father cared so little about the substance of anything that his son erupting at dinner didn’t even register on his list of things to care about so long as no one outside the immediate family was there to witness such a shameful display; or running away from difficult situations was hereditary.

He waited on the chaise in the living room for a few hours, constantly expecting that at any minute his father would arrive with a colleague to assess the degree and severity of his sickness and cart him off for electroshock and tranquilizers, but the man never returned. Save a quick goodbye from his mother and an “are there any other bags, sir?” from the driver, he might have sworn he didn’t even exist.

* * * * *

By the time Blaine landed in California, he was exhausted. Jet lag was always a bit disorienting, and the lack of a good night’s sleep only made it worse. He hadn’t been able to relax until he had belted himself into his seat on the plane and felt the aircraft taxi down the long asphalt runway before lifting off. He had almost breathed a sigh of relief as he watched Ohio shrink practically to nothingness before disappearing below the clouds. He had made it through the week. That had to count for something.

And, even better, Blaine thought to himself as he trudged up the jetway: he seriously doubted is parents would actively try to get him out there for another holiday any time soon. No doubt he would be made more impressive to his parents and their friends as a theoretical person whose accomplishments could speak for themselves, with appropriate embellishment, instead of being presented to polite society by the boy who felt too deeply to keep quiet. That had to be worth at least some of the exhaustion.

Immediately inside the airport, a small gaggle of people had gathered to greet their loved ones as they arrived. As Blaine scanned the area to figure out the best way to get through, he was surprised to see a familiar fedora bobbing above the crowd. Peter stood at the back edge of the group with a faint, almost shy smile. Blaine beamed as he saw him – it felt so good to be back – and upon seeing his grin, Peter seemed to relax a little.

Wow – he really had been scared that Blaine would regress, hadn’t he?

Blaine made his way over quickly, squeezing past a gentleman greeting his wife and a rich little old lady visiting her grandchildren, almost laughing to himself by the time he finally reached the young man. “I didn’t know you’d be here. I thought I would meet you at the circle near the taxis,” he stated.

“No, I thought- well. It didn’t make any sense to force you to carry your suitcase and overcoat by yourself, now, did it?” Peter sounded more stilted than Blaine was used to, more nervous than he had ever heard him, and that made Blaine uneasy. He clearly hadn’t reversed course during the trip, so he wasn’t sure what could be making his friend so anxious. “Here, let me take that,” he said, reaching for Blaine’s coat. Blaine handed it over, even more perplexed as he noticed the almost flustered look Peter got about him as their arms brushed. He folded the overcoat across his arm, smoothing it gently with his palm, then led the way toward baggage claim. “I see you’re none the worse for wear.”

Even thinking about the past week felt exhausting, now that he was safely back in California, but he managed a faint smile as he replied, “It wasn’t good, and I’m not going back, but I survived.”

“Good. I was worried.”

“I know,” Blaine smiled a little more broadly. There was something nice about having a friend who was concerned about him. It almost felt like enough reason to be okay; the last thing he wanted to do was disappointed Peter, and that had helped him immensely over the vacation.

“I thought you might backslide. It would be understandable, of course, being there with those sorts of people, but I hoped…” Peter hesitated again, and Blaine regarded him carefully out of the corner of his eye as they walked downstairs to collect his suitcase. Peter looked the same as always, in a navy pinstripe vest and wide-legged trousers, but his usual easy confidence wasn’t there. He moved differently, almost fidgeting, his steps conspicuously eager and too fast, his gaze alternating between fixed on Blaine and deliberately wandering elsewhere as though he had been caught looking where he shouldn’t.

“Is everything okay?” Blaine asked, eyebrows lowering in concern.

If he hadn’t been suspicious before, Peter’s awkward forced chuckle would have certainly made him so. “Of course, my dear boy, why do you ask?” his tone was too high, speed too rushed, like a man caught-

What if that was it? What if he had gotten into trouble while Blaine had been away? Maybe there had been a raid, or another protest, or arrests- “What happened while I was gone?” he asked, and Peter’s reply was not comforting.

“Something- I mean. Nothing, you don’t need to worry. Nothing happened, but we- ah. Well.” Peter glanced furtively around them at the passengers waiting to collect bags, then shook his head. “We’ll talk in the car.”

“Peter-"

“Everything’s fine,” he repeated, then a smile crossed his lips as he added, “Everything’s lovely.”

Blaine eyed him curiously, but when Peter didn’t say anything else – just stood there, watching him with a strange-looking grin – he simply retrieved his suitcase and followed Peter to the car.

As soon as they were inside, Peter’s hand found its way to Blaine’s, and the cover of a warm palm after a week without any meaningful contact felt overwhelmingly good – grounding, reassuring…he let out a quiet sigh of relief. When peter looked at him curiously, Blaine tried to pass it off as getting comfortable in his seat, which was laughable because Janie’s car was not especially comfortable. He swallowed, then turned to look at Peter. “What did you want to talk about?”

Peter looked caught off-guard for a moment, though Blaine couldn’t imagine why since they had started this conversation not ten minutes earlier. He drew in a deep breath and began, “I spent a lot of time thinking about you this week, while you were gone. At first it was just because I was worried about you. I knew you would have a rough time in Ohio, and I didn’t want you to go back to that miserable boy I met in September. And the more I thought about you, the clearer it became until-“ he paused, smiling faintly, then asked, “Have you ever had everything change in a second? Like you know how you feel, but then you blink and suddenly your entire world view is different?”

Blaine wasn’t sure at all where this was going, but he didn’t have to think back very far to come up with his answer. “When you played jazz for me,” he replied. There had been a moment where everything went from noise to absolute clarity in less than a measure, and suddenly everything Peter – and Kurt before him – had tried to explain made sense for the first time.

Peter’s face lit up at Blaine’s point of reference, and he offered a nervous smile as he replied, “exactly like that. Only perhaps more…potentially terrifying.” Blaine doubted anything could be more terrifying than what he had thought his life would be before he understood jazz, but he said nothing. Peter licked his lips as he continued. “I knew we were close, of course, and that I wanted you to be happy, but suddenly it was so clear, so obvious, that I couldn’t…” he squeezed Blaine’s hand and drew in a deep breath. “You are incredible, Blaine. You struggled for so long, but you’re passionate and strong, and- and handsome.” Blaine blushed and looked away, and Peter pulled back quickly, instantly apologetic. “I’m sorry. The last thing I wanted to do was make you uncomfortable. I thought you were ready- I’m sorry, my boy, we can forget…all of this.”

“Wait – ready for what?” Blaine asked, as confused as ever.

“There’s a dance up in san Francisco on New Year’s Eve. A party for homosexuals and a few people who support us. I wanted you to go with me, but don’t worry-“

Blaine blinked. “Is it somewhere safe, like those bars?"

“Yes, but-“

“Then of course I’ll go with you, silly. Last night I was tempted to ask if we could go up there tonight because after the last week it sounded so good to be around people like us. I know I was scared in the beginning, but I trust you. If you say something’s safe, I’ll go.”

“No,” Peter shook his head. “I meant…go as my date.” That stopped Blaine, and he turned slowly, eyes wide and eyebrows high in surprise. “I like you,” Peter admitted, looking younger and more awkward than Blaine had ever seen him as he let his vulnerabilities shine through his usual bravado. “I didn’t want to say anything if you weren’t ready. I know it’s only been a few months, but you made it through this week, you can make it through anything…” When Blaine didn’t know what to say, Peter shifted in his seat, looking away. He started the ignition, pulling his hand away to shift the car into gear and pull out of the parking lot, not saying a word, cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

Blaine didn’t know what to say. He could tell Peter was embarrassed, but he didn’t know how to-

He hadn’t really done this before. He had had girlfriends, but he had always initiated that, and he couldn’t remember most of it anyway. He and Kurt had danced around mutual flirtation for months before playing a cat-and-mouse game of affection he was too afraid to willingly return. That had ended disastrously. And losing Kurt had been bad, though worse in hindsight. If he lost Peter…

There was only one person in the world he could talk to right now, who understood what he was going through, how he was feeling. W hat if he agreed to go to this dance and it ended just as badly and he had to run across the country to get away from it.

What if he was just a really awful boyfriend? He was probably the only 23-year-old in the country who had never had a steady; most guys his age were married. He had no idea what to do on a date if it didn’t involve getting really drunk and fooling around.

Oh God, what if Peter expected- he certainly didn’t know how to do that. Not really. What if he hated it? …he wouldn’t, he knew; not the way he fantasized about it, not judging by the dreams he’d had… not liking it wouldn’t be the problem. And if he no longer had to be viscerally afraid that doing things – and enjoying them – would mean he was now a higher caliber of disease, a more severe case, maybe he could actually enjoy it this time and not run away feeling queasy after every encounter. If he could do any of this at all, which was still a very big “if.”

He just really didn’t want to ruin the best thing he had in his life. The Mendicants were great, and he loved leading them, but he couldn’t share things with them the same way. Despite everyone on campus knowing who he was, there was only one person he could talk to, and if he ruined this…if he shoved peter away…

But Peter, of all people, would understand, he tried to reassure himself. How many times had he literally tried to run away from the boy only to find him patiently waiting when Blaine finally found the strength to return? Peter knew where he was coming from, he understood how new all of this self-acceptance could feel. Why else would he have known to worry for Blaine during the trip to Ohio. Kurt had never been able to understand that part. Kurt had always just expected him to catch up.

…he still missed him, though. Still wished he could- Blaine didn’t know exactly, but it involved he and Kurt and the future Kurt had envisioned for them both. That probably wasn’t a very good way to start dating someone, was it? To be pining for an ex-boyfriend and wish for the ability to go back in time and fix things?

But he couldn’t fix things. If he thought there was any chance Kurt would want to see him or give him a second chance, he would have leapt at it that night. But after everything they had been through, and after five years during which he assumed Kurt had moved on, it didn’t make any sense to wait around as though one day three months from now, he would decide that Kurt might speak to him again. Maybe it was time to try to close the book on that agonizing chapter of his life and see about moving on himself.

Of all the men in the world, Peter would be a pretty good next step, right? He was kind of amazing, when Blaine thought about it. So strong – uncompromising in his beliefs and his right to be himself in all his fedora-clad glory. And he was patient, and understanding, and so kind…he would be far more patient with Blaine than any other man anywhere on the planet. He wouldn’t push or pressure until he knew Blaine was ready, but he wouldn’t let him hide behind fear and uncertainty either. And he was almost painfully smart, but not in an obnoxious way like some people at Stanford, and funny too – with that dry wit.

He understood music. He wasn’t musical, but he understood that part of Blaine’s life so clearly – he had known just how to get through to him when Blaine was sure nothing could, and while their tastes were completely different, there was something that made him giddy about wanting to lie on the floor with Peter and listen to records.

And he was really…really handsome.

Blaine tried not to let himself think about men like that, despite knowing – really knowing, he swore – that it wasn’t unnatural at all. It still felt too dangerous sometimes, like if he started seeing men that way, thinking about their bodies or features, he might not be able to stop. But he couldn’t’ deny that Peter was attractive; he had tried to ignore it since the night they met, but now…

He found himself wondering what those broad lips would feel like on his own. How the warm, strong hand would feel on the small of his back. What that chest would feel like under his fingertips.

Blaine swallowed hard, sitting stiffly in his seat as he glanced over at Peter. The younger man stared straight ahead, hands tightly clenched around the steering wheel and gear shift, jaw tense. Every so often he gave a tiny shake of his head as though giving himself a lecture for being silly enough to admit his feelings like that. Blaine drew in a deep breath, then placed his hand over Peter’s on the gearshift. Peter looked over in surprise, trying to read Blaine’s expression in a series of quick glances away from the road. “I…really appreciate your honesty,” he began, and Peter’s expression fell for a moment before he could cover. “no- I didn’t mean it like that,” Blaine added quickly. “I…don’t know what I’m doing. This is all really new for me, and I really don’t want to lose you.”

Peter glanced over again in surprise. ‘Why would you lose me?’

“You know how my other attempts at dating and romance have gone.

“That was different – you were afraid then.”

“I’m kind of afraid now,” Blaine pointed out, and peter laughed softly.

“It’s different. You’re afraid now because this is new. It’s a far cry from being afraid because of who you are, wouldn’t you say?”

“I suppose,” Blaine had to admit.

“I know this is a big step for you, and I wouldn’t suggest it if I didn’t think you were ready. But you won’t lose me either way, Blaine. You mean too much to me to let that happen.”

He sounded so genuinely worried, so sincere and gentle… Blaine nodded slowly, hesitating only a moment before offering nervously, “Okay.”

Peter blinked. “Okay?” he asked, his voice nervous as though he was afraid he had misunderstood Blaine’s reply.

“I don’t know what a boyfriend does when there’s not a girlfriend, but I want to try.”

Peter’s face lit up, grin stretching from ear to ear as he replied, “Well, he starts by coming to the New Years Eve dance with me.”

“Then that’s what I’ll do,” Blaine replied, smiling, and Peter beamed even more brightly. He took his hand off the shift and reached over to squeeze Blaine’s shoulder encouragingly. Even the simple touch felt monumental after the past week – and past hour. Blaine closed his eyes, letting himself enjoy the contact as he settled into his seat for the rest of the drive home.