"We've been over this," Kurt replied in a voice that held no frustration but made clear just how serious a topic this was. "You do not simply drop off a tuxedo, though I must admit I am proud that you own one. I'll be spending most of my week working on my ensemble-" He drew out the pronunciation of the word with a deliberate French accent. "-because there is simply nothing available off-the-rack for a young fashionable man in Ohio. But just because you own it doesn't mean the work is done. Oh no. For one thing, I need to see you in it and make sure it doesn't need altering."

"I've worn it before."

Kurt gave him a deadpan look. "Blaine, I've seen you a handful of times not in uniform, and from what little about your style I've been able to cobble together, all I can say is that you tend to be very...low-maintenance when it comes to fashion. You go out to the mall, you buy the first collared shirt you see, you throw on a pair of jeans you've had for years and that's the end of that. And that's fine...for the movies. But for a special occasion, a big night like this, you should trust my fashion judgment."

"The dance isn't for almost two weeks," Blaine pointed out.

"Which is why we're doing this now. I don't know the tailors out here and the last thing we need is for your tux to be ready two days after the dance."

That was a reasonable point. "Still, you didn't need to come along. I could have tried it on for you in my room." Kurt's eyes widened and he blushed, and it took Blaine a moment to realize what he could be thinking. "That wasn't a line, I swear." He wouldn't complain if Kurt used the opportunity to touch him, and the idea of Kurt taking the tux off of him made him breathless, but that hadn't been what he had meant at all.

"I believe you."

It was during moments like this that Blaine forgot things were strained. Little moments like this where Kurt sounded so much like he always had, and he felt comfortable - they felt comfortable. They could tease each other about things that they did that no one could ever know about, and it was like their private joke instead of an oppressive, all-consuming secret that would destroy him if he tried to keep it much longer.

When it was just the two of them, when things weren't too serious, he could be like he had been. And of course they had to be different when others were around, that had always been the case - and Kurt understood that. He had to. He didn't have to like it, and Kurt had made very clear that he didn't, but that didn't mean they could ignore the reality of their situation. Most of the time, that felt like something he could live with; as much as it hurt to think so hard about who had seen him put his hand on Kurt's and whether they were suspicious or thought he was just a naturally tactile person (which was true), as frustrating as it was to want to talk about how crazy about Kurt he was and know there was literally no one except Kurt who could ever know that, for the most part when it came to day-to-day issues he could handle that. He had been hiding for long enough to be used to it, and it had only been in October that he'd gained even a single confidante; that he could talk to Kurt about things, at least, made the load a little lighter.

The problem was whenever things went beyond that boundary, went beyond the here-and-now. Today was fine. Tomorrow was fine. Even two weeks from now for the dance that Kurt was excited about for no reason Blaine could understand, he could deal with. It was once the future started to be painted in grand terms, sweeping brushstrokes without a definite timeframe that used phrases like 'When we're older' or 'at college' or 'someday.'

Or 'Once we're in New York.'

Practically every conversation with Kurt started with that phrase now. Once they got to New York, they could have friends who knew they were a couple. Once they were in New York, they could known other homosexuals, maybe even other homosexual couples, and then they could go on dates - real dates, like Finn and Quinn and Puck and Sandy went on. Once they were in New York, they would rise through the ranks of society and be invited to every elegant soiree in town, hosting their own galas with the most beautiful people in the most beautiful city in the world. Once they were in New York, they wouldn't find anyone prejudiced because people would know better, which meant that once they were in New York, they could practically dance down the street hand-in-hand and no one could tell them not to.

Also the streets would be paved in gold, and there would be a chicken in every pot.

He didn't mean to find it all so ridiculous. He wanted to be able to buy into Kurt's fantasy, because it was obvious that, in Kurt's mind at least, they were blissfully, blithely happy once they got to New York. He had wanted to be able to buy into the fantasy all along, even if it had always seemed just a bit too fantastical for his tastes. He had almost gotten there, too...but then Baltimore happened, and then the drive-in, and it was like suddenly the entire thing went from being a bit overzealously unrealistic to being a bald-faced lie. Instead of abandoning it, Kurt had seized on it and began to plan ten times more. Blaine wasn't sure if that meant Kurt believed in it more than ever, or felt more desperate than before. At least the latter he could understand, even if he couldn't force himself to feel the same way.

He had certainly tried.

Maybe the future had always been the problem, he thought as he turned onto the street he had grown up on. Maybe on some level or another, that had always been their biggest sticking point. Maybe everything in the future just felt closer all of a sudden because everything at school had ramped up into the pre-graduation fervor. It happened every year, but this year was different because this year it actually impacted him. In previous years, with the exception of Council elections and his own finals, the end of the year held little significance for him aside from forcing him to go home for three months. Now, as graduation loomed, as everyone was excitedly chattering about their future plans...

...he just really didn't want to keep hearing about their life in a mystical fantasy land right now.

He could plan as far ahead as the dance, if he really had to, and Kurt was so excited about it that it was best to just let him have this. He wasn't looking forward to it, but he didn't hate the idea...and at the very least, he believed that there would be such a thing as a dance at Dalton in two weeks. That couldn't be said of any of Kurt's other future plans.

Kurt's eyes widened as Blaine pulled into the driveway. "This is where you live?"

Not exactly, Blaine thought. He lived at Dalton. But as he understood what Kurt meant, and as he didn't want Kurt to see him as the surly teenager he could already feel himself starting to turn into just by being near his parents, he simply forced a smile and replied, "Yeah." It was a large house, though the outside did not look as grand as the interior; however, having to Kurt's house he could understand why he seemed so awed.

He would have rather gone to Kurt's, no matter how tiny it was. But that wasn't where the tuxedo was. The best he could hope for was getting in and out quickly before he had to deal with his father.

He led Kurt up the front walk and fished out his key, unlocking the front door and pushing it open. "Oh my," Kurt whispered as he took in the entryway, eyes wide and awed.

"It's not that big of a deal," Blaine shrugged.

"I've never been in a house with a grand foyer before. The closest I've come is Sandy Lopez's when she had a post-Sectionals party last year, and I think the Fabrays have one but not this big. It's amazing."

"It's really not."

"Are you kidding?" Kurt laughed, holding out his arms. "Look at it, Blaine, can you imagine the kind of festive evenings that a person could throw with a space like this? It's so elegant, so ritzy...It looks like Rosalind Russell should be coming down those stairs." When Blaine just stared at him, he explained, "Auntie Mame? Come on, Blaine, you must have seen it."

He had. His parents' house wasn't nearly that large, though he supposed it was closer to that kind of grandeur than Kurt's was.

"I didn't know you cared about all this stuff," he said cautiously. If he were merely ambivalent, he could have lived with Kurt's enthusiasm, however overabundant; but from the way Kurt looked as though he might begin to spin his way through the foyer and into the well-apportioned living room, let alone the formal dining room with its paintings and long table and elegant china cabinet that held dishes too formal for use even on holidays, Blaine was beginning to get the impression that this was what Kurt meant when he talked about throwing parties in New York. In Kurt's dreams, this was his life...wasn't it? In Kurt's most wild fantasies, he had run of an estate like this and had a house this grand as his own personal canvas for soirees and themed feasts and masquerade balls.

To Kurt, this was something fantastic to dream about having one day. To Blaine, it was an ornately-furnished prison where everyone looked, dressed, drank, and spoke the same. Kurt probably wanted to dance up the stairs like Ginger Rogers, and Blaine wanted to run up them, grab his tux, and run back down to go back to Dalton where he felt like he could breathe, all before anyone saw him.

Was this what Kurt was going to be working toward if they moved there?

What if the worst thing the fantasy could be wasn't unrealistic or unobtainable? What if it wasn't something he even wanted to obtain?

Kurt turned to face him suddenly, looking confused and surprised. "If you mean do I think of you any differently, I don't," Kurt assured him sincerely. "I know most of the population of Dalton lives more like this than like me."

"What? Oh- no, Kurt, that's not-" Blaine tried to come up with the right way of explaining it to Kurt, but he wasn't entirely sure he could absent dragging Kurt along to insufferable parties for the next ten years until the novelty had long since worn off and the perpetual irritation and boredom set in. "It's just not as wonderful as-"

"Blaine?" His mother's high, pleasant voice carried from the next room as he heard the slow, even click of her heels against the polished hardwood. "Dear? What are you doing home? I wasn't expecting you."

"I'm sorry, it was a last-minute decision. We just need to pick up my tuxedo." When his mother's vacant gaze took on a slightly more curious quality, he added awkwardly, "The spring dance is coming up."

"We?" she glanced and noticed Kurt for the first time. "Oh - hello. I'm sorry, I don't believe we've met..."

"Mother, this is Kurt Hummel. He's-" There were a million words Blaine could use to describe Kurt. There were lofty adjectives dedicated to his strength and courage. There were words of high praise and envy dedicated to his whole-hearted self-acceptance that Blaine could never imagine being able to possess. There were physical descriptors attached to his porcelain skin and his incredible eyes and his completely kissable lips. There were ways of attempting to explain his unusual sense of humour and his penchant for sarcasm.

There was the terrifying relationship word that still felt foreign on his tongue and would be far worse than foreign inside this house.

"-a friend of mine from school." He noticed Kurt stiffen slightly, but he knew he would be introduced no differently to any of Kurt's family. The only time he might be introduced otherwise was to Rachel's father if ever they met. "Kurt - my mother, Genevieve Anderson."

Kurt shook his mother's hand with an exaggerated flourish and an even straighter posture than Blaine was used to from the boy who was already a generally more formal than the situation called for, albeit awkwardly and often with bad jokes in proportion to his nervousness. He seemed to be unable to tear his eyes away from the woman as he said, "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Anderson. Blaine says such lovely things about you."

He didn't. He didn't talk about her at all, really, but it appeared Kurt had gotten the handbook on how to use pleasantries that meant nothing to be polite and blend in. While it was on the surface a good thing, if only because the last thing he wanted to deal with were concerns later about his rude friend, it was a side of Kurt he never wanted to see.

He wasn't sure why it bothered him so much. He had certainly encouraged Kurt to blend in a little better, especially around people who weren't from Dalton. He wished so often that Kurt would be more discreet about things, wouldn't go around talking about the kinds of things he liked to talk about quite so loudly and quite so publicly. But the thought of Kurt turning into exactly whom he had dreaded becoming for as long as he could remember made him feel queasy. so much of what he admired about Kurt and his strength was tied up in his ability to be exactly who he wanted to be even when it wasn't who other people thought he should be. It was something Blaine could never hope to feel half as secure in as Kurt seemed to be...but somehow this was what Kurt wanted to be?
"I won't keep you boys. Kurt, would you like to join us for dinner?"
It was obvious from the way Kurt's posture changed just a bit that it was taking everything in him not to clap his hands together and bounce on his toes at the idea of a formal dining experience with multiple forks. He had seen dinner with Kurt's family and knew that casual warmth was their specialty-
Maybe it was just an envy thing. A classic case of wanting whatever it is you've never had - the grass was greener on the other side of the manicured lawn, perhaps. It wasn't much consolation.
"Thank you, Mrs. Anderson, I would love to," he grinned breathlessly, glancing over at Blaine with a quick upward flick of his eyebrows as if to say 'Can you believe it?' His mother smiled vacantly as she strode gracefully from the room with an even click of her heels.
"Come on, let's go get the tux," Blaine said quietly, nodding toward the stairs. Luckily Kurt seemed to know enough to keep his gushing to a minimum until they were ensconced in his bedroom.
"Oh my god, Blaine, why did you never tell me about your mother?" Kurt asked as he naturally took a place on the perfectly-made bed; it didn't bounce the same way as the mattress at Dalton.
"What about her?" he asked as he turned to flick through his closet. The tux was behind a half dozen or so suits, and it was difficult to reach it without mussing the others.
"She's perfect. So tall and graceful and elegant - your mother is Grace Kelly. She wears Dior - that was honest-to-god Dior! And those pearls...She's amazing. A mother like in the movies. Don't get me wrong, I love Carole and she makes my father incredibly happy. But when I was little, after my mother died, and I would go to Saturday matinees with Mercedes there were these women who were the epitome of style and grace, they never used the wrong fork or misplaced their glasses - they never had glasses. And they wore heels to do the vacuuming."
"My mother has never used a vacuum in her life," Blaine pointed out.
"Oh, that's even better," Kurt replied. "And then they would host these parties, these elegant dinner affairs with more than one course, and for vacations they would whisk off on an airplane to somewhere that would take days of driving to get to - or to Europe. Has she been to Europe?"
"No." At least, not that he could recall. He unearthed the tuxedo and hung it on the doorknob as he went in search of the shirt.
"Hm." Kurt seemed disappointed but calculating, as though if he could find another great thing that would restore the status Mrs. Anderson currently held as 'Too incredible to be real.' "California, then?"
"My father has conferences out there every second year."
That seemed to do the trick as Kurt shifted onto his stomach on the bed with a dreamy smile. "What's it like?"
"I don't know, they don't take me," he replied.
"No, I don't mean California - though if you had been, I would be incredibly jealous," he stated. "I meant having a mother like that."

Perhaps the strongest feeling that kept bubbling up around Kurt now was also the strangest, Blaine was finding. The disgust was gone, the envy at how easily Kurt could accept and express himself was still there but beneath the surface, and as much as the raw primal need to touch and kiss and touch Kurt would rise up suddenly and catch him off-guard in its urgency, it was far less frequent than it used to be. In place of those was a protectiveness that he couldn't entirely explain. It had gotten stronger since they had found out about the drive-in - seeing Kurt so utterly shaken like that, as though his entire worldview was up in the air and how worried that made him...

Blaine could relate to that. But just because he knew what it felt like didn't mean he wanted Kurt to have to go through that. If anything it made him want to protect Kurt more. He knew how much it hurt to think everything out there, everything you had put your hopes in, was a elaborate lie.

He still felt sick when he even thought the word Nationals. Or Baltimore.

The last thing he wanted was for Kurt, who was so good, so hopeful, to see the worst in the world. Just because he was cynical about the future and distrusting of everyone around him didn't mean he wanted Kurt to be, too. And he hated seeing Kurt upset.

But he didn't know if he could lie to Kurt and paint a rosy picture of his family life when it was so obviously not. Kurt would see that things weren't as grand as he imagined soon enough at dinner, he didn't need to break his dreams before then. Letting the realization wash slowly over Kurt in the awkward silence of the eight-foot long table would be more than enough.

"I'm going to go change into this," he stated, holding up the hanger and nodding toward the bathroom across the hall.

"You don't have to go in there," Kurt replied, eyebrows lowered in confusion. "I've seen-"

Kurt didn't understand that it wasn't safe even in his bedroom here, he realized. It wasn't like school, it wasn't-

He pretended not to hear Kurt instead and walked across the hall with his clothes.

By the time he returned, Kurt was standing beside his desk, trailing an absent finger over the few knickknacks and photographs arranged across the surface. It had been part of Blaine's attempt to make the place feel more lived-in last summer; it hadn't worked. "Summer camp?" he asked, indicating a picture of a bunch of boys standing in front of a lake.

Blaine nodded. "Ages eight through fourteen." Back before his parents discovered boarding school and the summer was their only opportunity to get rid of him, he thought bitterly - it really was just being in this house that brought it out, he swore. "It's the one my father always wanted to go to as a child but couldn't afford."

"I can't imagine ever wanting to go to one. For one thing, I was definitely not the type to spend more time outdoors than absolutely necessary."

"It was fun, actually," he said, because it had been. It had been like a miniature version of Dalton in its own way, with its noise and orderly disorder, a bunch of boys who walked neatly to the mess hall in their pressed camp shirts but chattered all through breakfast before racing out the door to the lake to swim. "How's this?" he asked, indicating the tux.

Kurt turned to look at him, pursed his lips, and walked over to take a closer look. "Nice fit at the waist, perfect on the chest..." He paused a moment as he glanced Blaine up and down and blushed a little.

"So you like it?" Blaine surmised with a faint, knowing smile. The way Kurt was almost staring, he must.

"I will say this, Mr. Anderson," Kurt said with just a bit of a sway and a dreamy smile. "You know how to wear a tux."

Blaine smiled and rolled his eyes, but he couldn't help but relax a little. "So it's fine?"

"Well...I would take up the pants a little. But the sleeves..." Kurt ran his had slowly down Blaine's arm, smoothing the fabric downward. "Fit just fine."

"Yeah?" he asked, smiling a little more flirtatiously.

"Yeah," Kurt replied, then added with a smirk, "But don't get cocky. We need to talk about this shirt."

"What about the shirt?"

"The collar's all wrong for the tie," Kurt stated with a shake of his head as he reached up to try to adjust the bowtie.

"What are you doing?" Blaine laughed. "Ouch - okay, that's cutting off my airway-"

"It is not," Kurt replied. "Not if you can still complain about it." He tried to playfully swat Kurt's hands away, and Kurt pulled his head back in a comically overexaggerated manner. "Blaine Anderson, I swear, if you touch my hair-"

"You'll what?" Blaine grinned rather than pointing out that his hands were nowhere near Kurt's hair.

"I'll stop coming to your room-"

They were interrupted by the quiet sound of someone clearing their throat in the doorway. Blaine jumped back from Kurt as he spun to see- "Sir," he said breathlessly, his heart beating too fast to allow him to draw in a proper breath as he saw his father standing in the threshold. "I'm sorry, sir, I-"

"I wasn't expecting to see you, Blaine. You usually give us advance warning when you're coming," his father said evenly.

"I just needed to pick up a few things."

"Edgar could have brought them, it is part of his job."

As if a person needed a reason to go to the place that was supposed to be their home. As if he needed to warn them before he came back. Even though he knew what his father meant, the subtle (or not-so-subtle) insinuations drove him crazy. If Kurt showed up unannounced, it would be cause for celebration.

When he didn't have a ready response, his father simply left. And that, apparently, was that.

If only he could get his heart to recognize that and stop beating so quickly.

* * * * *

Dinner was, as usual, unbearably silent and tense. Kurt tried at first to engage the table in smalltalk using what Blaine was certain were topics he had seen in a list somewhere of polite dinner conversation because it sounded right out of his mother's playbook. While his mother would engage for just long enough to be polite, it was hardly what Kurt was expecting - that much was evident all over his face.

As much as Blaine hated to think of it like that, maybe that meant it had been a good thing they stayed. Maybe this would get Kurt away from thinking that this was what we wanted. Maybe the "Once we're in New York" conversations could shift a little bit and feel less like he might suffocate if they ended up getting exactly what Kurt wanted.

He never wanted Kurt to change per se, just to be slightly more...realistic about it all.

As they got ready to make the short drive back to Dalton, Blaine's father looked him directly in the eye and said, "A moment, please?"

Blaine contemplated trying to get out of it, but he knew there was no excuse he could give that would excuse him from his father's attempt at talking with him. The point at which his father actively sought him out, as he had learned over the years, there was very little he could do to escape. For one thing, years of training in the innerworkings of the brain made it difficult to be lied to effectively. He drew in a deep breath before answering, "Yes, sir. Of course." He glanced over at Kurt, and the look of nervousness on Kurt's face, as though he were terrified on Blaine's behalf, was both touching and unnerving. He much preferred dealing with his father as a solitary matter, and that was more than terrifying enough. The addition of another person just seemed to reinforce the fact that this was going to be excrutiating. "Kurt, if you'll excuse me-"

"Oh, of course. I'll stay here and discuss Chanel with your mother," he said, flashing a winning smile at Mrs. Anderson, who returned it with a more muted enthusiasm.

Blaine tried to force a smile, but it was wobbly and they both knew it.

The walk down the hall to his father's study was short, but every step filled Blaine with more dread. His father knew, he had to. Why else would he be trying to pull him aside and corner him after a dinner where he had unknowingly met Blaine's boyfriend- there was no other explanation. Every other topic would be broached in the open, he certainly hadn't been shy about asking about why Blaine hadn't confirmed his attendance at Yale for the fall - a moment during which Blaine had been both surprised and relieved beyond measure that Kurt had understood enough to keep his mouth shut about damned New York - and that was the only thing Blaine could think of that his father would seek him out to talk to him about.

Unless his father knew.

And if his father knew...

He wondered if Kurt would be able to hear him screaming if his father already had orderlies in there to drag him off to a hospital when he refused to go. He wondered if he would even have the strength to tell them no.

It was hard to believe that the last time he'd been in this house, he had been trying desperately to tell his father so he could be helped. He wanted so badly to be cured, he knew he was wrong beyond a shadow of a doubt. Without question, he wanted to be fixed and his father held all the answers. His biggest fear had been that his father would be ashamed of him even while getting him help, that...that his father's reputation would suffer because his own son had fallen prey to such a fate.

Now, though, only four months later...he knew he wasn't wrong. He and Kurt weren't sick, and what they had together was-...it certainly wasn't perfect, but it wasn't wrong.

Even though his father would believe otherwise and do everything in his power to-

His father closed the door to the study behind them. "Have a seat," he commanded more than urged, gesturing to the brown leather tufted chaise against one wall. Blaine sat stiffly at the foot end as his father took a seat in his wingback chair. He had never understood why his father's private study, where he never saw patients, looked so much like his office - maybe it was force of habit or something. Or the way his father felt most comfortable, in the sort of gentle interrogation...or was it aggressive psychological prodding? Blaine could never be sure. It walked a fine line that left the person on the receiving end perpetually wondering why they had revealed particular information, so maybe it was a little of both.

"I wanted to speak with you about this friend of yours," his father began, and Blaine stopped breathing.

He knows. He knows, he knows heknowsheknowsheknows-

"What about him, sir?" he asked, projecting the most comfortable, confident air he could.

"He seems like a nice boy, obviously from a lower family but that's hardly his fault, now, is it? He must be hardworking if he's keeping up with the rigors of Dalton, obviously intelligent..." It seemed like his father was going down a checklist, a mental ledger of what qualities-...he remembered the same conversation when he was younger about a girl they wanted him to take out, a daughter of a family friend who was less-well-off than them but still worthy of consideration. If anything perhaps a bit more worthy, in his father's eyes - he had, after all, come up from relatively little.

Somehow Blaine doubted that was where the conversation was going.

He was careful not to let his agreement about Kurt's positive attributes show, even though his father was certainly right about Kurt's intelligence and work ethic. He was also strong and wouldn't be nearly this terrified were he in the same situation.

How had his father known?

He had been so careful during dinner, had tried so hard not to look too interested in what Kurt was saying, to not stare at him between courses even though Kurt was so stunningly beautiful that it was almost painful not to look at him. He had kept himself from laughing at Kurt's really bad jokes, and when he had seen that his failure to laugh had hurt the boy he had only barely refrained from apologizing. He hadn't reached for Kurt's hand or let it graze accidentally when passing the butter, he hadn't even sent smiles across the table in Kurt's direction. Was it-

Was it because of what his father had seen when he had passed the bedroom?

That had bee stupid, but surely it wasn't to the level of-...they hadn't been doing anything, Kurt had been fighting with his tie but they weren't doing anything and it wasn't something that screamed 'homosexual!'...was it?

Was it?

He had no idea, he hadn't been paying close enough attention. Had he smiled too long at Kurt then? Touched his hand too much? He-...he wasn't even sure, he had let his guard drop and now-

"He's sick, son. He's...well, the sort I would treat."

It was the first time Blaine could remember his father calling him that. He was more busy trying not to cringe at the code.

"He prefers the company of women, is fastidious in his manner, mincing, the way he speaks, his hips when he walks...I know this might be difficult to hear, Blaine, as I can tell you're obviously very fond of this boy," he said, his voice patronizing and smooth. "But that's precisely what worries me. Boys like your friend...they prey on that type of fondness. You find yourself wanting to spend time with him, to be around him, and the more he learns about you, the more he can use against you. I've seen a lot of cases like his over the years, and one thing that is nearly universal is the ability to twist anything to suit their own purposes. Someone as severely ill as he...you can't reason with them. It's not his fault," he added quickly. "He can't help the way his brain works any more than anyone else who is deeply disturbed...but that's what he is."

Blaine's fingers tightened, clenching into his palm so hard that he wondered if they might draw blood. If anyone was able to be logical about this, it was Kurt. It was Kurt who had pointed out that just because someone says something is wrong doesn't mean it actually is wrong. Kurt was the one who understood all of this, who had tried to help him-...

But what if he was wrong? What if Kurt really was just good at using any justification he could find to make himself believe what he wanted to? What if Kurt, however well-meaning, was still incorrect?

Six months ago, he would have believed that. Now, though...it felt right with Kurt, it felt real in a way that things never had with Jean, and it felt easy in a way that they probably never would with Rachel, and even though he would someday have to grow up this...this wasn't actually wrong. He knew that. He knew it and nothing his father could say would convince him otherwise.

"I don't want you falling in with the wrong sort, Blaine. You could be hurt. They're aggressive - the urges are too strong-"

He wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry.

"What-" Blaine cleared his throat to try to brig his voice down a bit. "What would you do for him?"

He wasn't sure why he even asked, maybe morbid curiosity, maybe trying to remind himself of exactly why he couldn't tell his father all the reasons he was wrong about Kurt...because he wanted to. He wanted to tell his father he didn't know anything, that Kurt was the least aggressive person he had ever encountered and that it was he who was the predator. That what they had wasn't dangerous, it was safe and warm and incredible and how dare he.

But he couldn't say that. Because if he did...

"In severe cases such as his, difficult ones like that..." His father sighed and shook his head; he looked tired and defeated, as though he was afraid to promise Blaine anything because Kurt's case was so grim, the outlook so bleak. "Treatment would need to be very aggressive, I'm afraid. Electro-shock therapy, combined with behavioural therapy to help with his inversion...and even then, it is unlikely he could ever function completely normally."

...He had to say something, but he couldn't. If he did, his father would know about him and then-

"You're wrong about him," was all he could say, and even that was more harsh than his father had been expecting. He looked at Blaine in shock, not used to being contradicted by anyone, least of all by his own son, and Blaine stared back at him. "You don't know anything about him, and you're wrong." Blaine pushed himself off the couch and strode from the room. He half expected his father to chase after, demand to know what he meant by that and since when he thought he had the right to talk back to his father because he had been raised better than that-

But his father didn't move from his place in the chair.

Blaine walked quickly down the hall into the foyer where Kurt was eagerly chattering about the difference between various designer perfumes that he had seen at the makeup counter at Macys. "We should be going now," he said, his voice sounding eerily calm to his ears even as he felt like he might begin to tremble so hard he would be unable to remain standing.

Kurt regarded him suspiciously and with evident concern. "Is everything okay?"

Blaine gave a wobbly nod; his mother either didn't notice or didn't comment. He wasn't sure which one, and he hoped to god he never knew. "Everything's fine."

It was obvious from Kurt's expression that he knew it was a bald-faced lie, but he simply turned to Blaine's mother and said with a bright smile, "Mrs. Anderson, thank you for a lovely evening." He shook her hand, clasping his left around the back of it, then allowed Blaine to lead him out.

He felt like he couldn't breathe. He had thought his father was wrong on so many things for so long, but on this of all things - to tell him that he was incorrect-

What on earth had made him say that?

As he glanced over at Kurt in the passenger seat, still grinning over the evening and talking about how the concept of "dressing for dinner" was a dying art, and one he needed to reintroduce at Dalton if only because his own family would never go for such a thing because really, he wasn't sure if his father even owned more than two ties...he could imagine that melting away, the enthusiasm being cut out suddenly until he was only an empty shell of Kurt in fantastic clothes with the same rote questions, but suddenly not caring if anyone actually answered them.

"Once we're in New York, we'll dress for dinner. I know you have enough suits for it now - I've seen your closet," Kurt stated as though one's closet was the most intimate and revealing thing a person could see of another.

There was only one thing he wanted less than to become his father, and that was for Kurt to become his mother.

Whatever else happened, at least he had accomplished that much.