Seasons changed, and so did Blaine.

            He could feel it in him, the growing and the changing, the strengthening of bones and muscle inside his body. He could almost watch the wrinkles recede just slightly, watch the curve of his spine in the mirror as it straightened. He felt the energy inside him, kicking like a living thing, banishing the aches and pains that morning always brought, leaving him alert and thriving with vigor.

            The elderlies couldn’t believe it. Blaine had come to them on death’s door and he seemed to have skipped cheerily back into life without a care. Mama Quinn, of course, told him she knew all along he was special, petting his head and pinching his leathery cheek.

            Blaine still felt different, but now different had a new name: backwards. Blaine grew up backwards, aged backwards; he was older but younger at the same time, bones stronger and mind sharper. It was strange, and it confused him if he paused to think about it for too long. He had never even heard fairytales about someone else like him – did that mean he was the only person who had ever been born this way? He didn’t bother asking Quinn funny questions like that anymore – he knew by now that he had been left in a bundle on the porch steps and that Quinn and Noah knew no more about his condition or where he had come from than he did.

But Blaine was happy. If he had to pick one little word out of the hundreds and thousands and millions at his fingertips, that would be it. Happy. He had long ago stopped worrying about dying – he figured if he was really meant to die, he would have already. And anyways, everybody died, one way or another. Life was full of fears and worries that could hunt you down and plague you until you died from worrying about dying, and Blaine did not intend for that to be his fate. He loved living too much. He loved the smell of Noah’s coffee, drifting through the cracks in the floor every morning, he loved the gentle pressure of Quinn’s fingers on his head when she cut his hair (I swear to God, Blaine, you have more hair on your head each morning than you did the night before). He loved the creak and sigh of the old house in the middle of the night, and he loved that sleepy feeling of being cold and pulling the blankets up to his chin and registering the warmth before sleep carried him off again.
            Blaine loved.

He particularly loved when they threw parties, and Quinn and Noah would slave away in the kitchen all morning preparing food (Blaine also loved when Noah would hit Quinn with flour, powdering her face with it, and then she would crack an egg on the top of his head and then he would kiss her with yolk dripping down his nose when they didn’t think Blaine was looking) and some of the more able-bodied elderlies would drag tables to the lawn and dress them up all fancy, like they did at funerals, but Blaine liked this way much better. The house would be cleaned – swept, dusted, beds made and chairs aligned, even though the party would be limited to the downstairs and outside. Blaine’s favorite part of parties was watching the cars roll up, hoods sparkling in the sunlight, and see the guests and relatives emerge, all shades and sizes, ages and agilities. Then Quinn would holler for Blaine to come be social, and he would pick up his cane (his crutches had become full-time residents in the coat closet ages ago) and join Quinn to smile and shake hands with all the new faces.

Blaine wasn’t too great at remembering faces yet, but there was one particular group of faces he never forgot.

“Blaine, this is our friend Burt Hummel,” Quinn introduced Blaine to a medium-sized man with a bald head to rival Blaine’s and who smiled kindly at Blaine, squinting against the sun. “He’s a political speaker that we’re all very fond of, and he’s bringing his mother to stay here with us.”

Blaine greeted Burt and Burt’s mother politely, good to meet you sir and ma’am, how do you do, and Burt shook Blaine’s hand, grasp firm but his crinkled eyes gentle.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Blaine, Quinn and Noah have told me some very good things about you.”

“Thank you, sir,” Blaine said, blushing slightly. He liked Burt already – the man had a very homely disposition and kind eyes, complete a stomach that jutted just slightly over the waistband of his slacks that Blaine thought added to Burt’s personality.

“Everyone, this is my mother, Abigail.” Burt urged his mother forward, a straight-backed, wrinkled creature with eyes that burned with life. Quinn gushed over how young Abigail looked and the old woman waved her off, cheeks coloring in pleasure, while Burt and Noah began to discuss automobiles and Blaine fidgeted, losing interest in the conversations and glancing longingly at the pitcher of lemonade on the porch.

“And just look at you!” Abigail exclaimed suddenly, jostling Blaine from his wistful staring and grasping him by the shoulder, white hair bobbing around her chin as she appraised him. “You look so healthy for your age! Goodness gracious, you take good care of your guests, Miss Quinn!”

“Yes, well, we do what we can,” Quinn laughed, and Blaine got the impression that, while Burt seemed to be aware of Blaine’s condition, Abigail was not. He smiled and blushed at Abigail and cut his eyes up at Quinn, who just smiled at him and squeezed his shoulders before pulling Noah away from his animated conversation with Burt and instructing him to help Abigail bring her bags inside. Blaine resumed staring at the lemonade, wondering if he squinted hard enough it would just rise into the air and float into his hands.

“Papa, Papa look at me!” Blaine was distracted from the lemonade for a second time, disconcerted by the high, clear voice that echoed above the low, gravelly tones of the elderlies. He twisted his head around to see a little boy turn a cartwheel on the lawn, thin arms and legs flying in a pinwheel before he landed upright. Blaine could see the proud grin on the boy’s face from all the way across the yard.

“Very nice, kiddo! Come on over and say hello,” Burt called, rolling his eyes fondly at Quinn. “We’re in the energetic stage.”

“I don’t think we’ve quite reached that point,” Quinn laughed, resting a hand briefly on the top of Blaine’s head, but Blaine just stared as the little boy barreled over, too-big sweater trailing behind him like a cape as he ran, skidding none-too-gracefully to a stop beside Burt.

“Hello,” he chirped, a little out of breath. His cheeks were flushed with pink, a sharp contrast to his pale skin, and his blue-green eyes sparkled like the jewels on Mama Quinn’s dressed that she sometimes let him look at if he swore to be careful.

Blaine didn’t quite know how to describe the boy, and he didn’t think this was really the right was to put it, but he was… pretty.

Mama Quinn murmured something in his ear about being polite, and Blaine stepped forward, holding out his hand like Noah had taught him. “My name’s Blaine.” The boy looked him up and down, thin eyebrows rising, before he smiled a little and shook Blaine’s hand.

“Kurt,” he said shyly, tongue hitting the roof of his mouth to sharply accentuate the T.

“It’s nice to meet you, Kurt,” Quinn said warmly from over Blaine’s head, and Kurt waved delicately at her before twirling on his toes to hide behind Burt’s legs.

“Oh come on, buddy,” Burt chuckled, shaking his leg to loosen Kurt’s grip. “You’ve never been shy once in your life, you’re really gonna start now?”

Those pretty – no, beautiful, Blaine decided – eyes peeked out from behind Burt’s hip and squinted at Blaine, who wasn’t sure what to do under the sudden scrutiny of Kurt’s gaze.

Burt finally succeeded in shaking Kurt off, right as Blaine started to get uncomfortable just staring at Kurt like that, at Kurt huffed out a sharp sigh and promptly whirled away, darting to shove his nose into the flowerbeds by the porch.

“He seems like a handful,” Quinn commented, not unkindly, and Burt guffawed, running his hand over his head.

“You have no idea.” He sobered suddenly, his voice taking on a rough note. “His mother died this past year, and it’s been… tough.”

Blaine glanced away from Kurt, into the overwhelming sadness in Burt’s eyes. More death. It was as familiar as the back of Blaine’s hand by now, people around him dying. People came and people went, and that was the way of things, but news of it never failed to make Blaine a little quivery in his stomach.

Quinn murmured her condolences and Burt shrugged, saying something that Blaine didn’t quite catch, lost in his thoughts as he was. Kurt’s mama had died? Blaine couldn’t even image living in a world without Mama Quinn. He felt awful for Kurt, who was currently on his stomach with his face an inch away from a rosebush. He seemed so happy for a little boy without a mama. So happy and so… pretty. Now that Blaine had settled on the description, he couldn’t help noticing it.

Kurt was pretty, his hair a light, silky brown that shimmered under the bright sunlight, and his face was made up pink cheeks and bright, smiling lips. And those eyes – Blaine had honestly never seen anything more beautiful before. Kurt reminded Blaine of a porcelain doll, like the ones Mrs. Hilshire kept on her dresser, gathering dust.

Blaine was a little unnerved. Wasn’t he supposed to think that girls were pretty? Like how Noah always murmured to Quinn that she was beautiful before kissing her cheek long enough that it turned pink? Blaine had never heard of a boy calling another boy pretty before. It seemed to him like it might not be a good thing, like “pretty” was a word that should only be used to describe girls. That made Blaine kind of sad.

In any case, Blaine knew he had to be careful, whether it was boys or girls he deemed pretty. Quinn was constantly telling him, now that he was old enough to grasp the concept, that he did not look young like he actually was. Blaine knew this, obviously, he looked in the mirror every morning like everyone else did, and he understood that people did not see him as a little boy. He had always fit in with the elderlies more than he had with the children that played hopscotch in the street. Blaine knew he couldn’t just tell Kurt he was pretty, even if he had been a girl.

The conversation turned to dinner, and Blaine finally got his glass of lemonade when he sat down at one of the tables in the piano room, waiting for the food to be served. He sipped happily at his glass while Quinn and Noah directed the guests and elderlies to their seats, tapping the heel of his shoe against the leg of his chair. Mr. Schue arrived right before the dinner bell, accompanied by the red-haired lady from a few months ago, and they seated themselves at Blaine’s table after Mr. Schue grabbed Blaine in a giant hug. Blaine watched with interest as the lady – Mr. Schue introduced her as Emma – surreptitiously scrubbed her silverware on her napkin before straightening her dishes to a uniform precision and folding her hands in her lap.

“Hi, Blaine!” a high voice called, and Blaine turned from Emma to see Kurt skirting around all the wheelchairs and tables to join Blaine at the table, biting his lip shyly as he came to a halt.

“Hi, Kurt,” Blaine replied, unable to hold back the smile that tugged on his lips. Burt and Abigail pulled out chairs as well, Burt helping Abigail into her seat despite her squawking and batting at his hands, and Kurt rolled his eyes, leaning towards Blaine conspiratorially as he clambered onto his own chair.

“She says she doesn’t need help, but I’ve seen her fall right off her chair,” he stage-whispered, and Blaine stuffed his face into his lemonade glass to stifle a giggle.

“Can we have your attention, everyone, please!” Quinn’s gentle voice called out over the low chatter and everyone turned, necks craning to see what was going on. Blaine peered over Kurt’s head to see Quinn standing nervously in the kitchen archway, smoothing down her apron, and Noah came up behind her, hands squeezing reassuringly at her shoulders. His squinty smile was visible even from across the room.

Quinn glanced back at Noah, who nodded, and she took in a breath, letting out a sharp laugh before she said, “The Lord has answered our prayers!” There was an eruption of low noise; happy murmurs, astonished gasps, a smattering of claps. Blaine looked around, smiling and applauding as well, but he leaned in to Kurt, whispering, “What does that mean, answered their prayers?”

Kurt looked at him funny, like he had something stuck to his nose and no one had bothered to tell him. “She’s gonna have a baby, silly.”

Blaine’s smile slipped as his world did. It was silly of him, really, to think that only he had been healed. Of course Mama Quinn would be able to have a baby now, Blaine had figured that much. He just didn’t think it would actually happen.

The room felt too small and too loud as dinner was served and Quinn and Noah moved around the room, accepting congratulations and words of advice from the elderlies, and Blaine just watched, this funny, twisty feeling settling in the bottom of his stomach.

A baby? What would happen now? Quinn wouldn’t forget about him, would she? Blaine’s heart fluttered and he accidentally dropped his fork on to his plate with a sharp clatter, earning another funny look from Kurt. Quinn’s eyes met his from across the room, the joy on her face burning down to the smallness Blaine was feeling, before someone pulled her attention away and Blaine was left staring down into the glass of lemonade he no longer wanted to drink.

 Blaine slept alone that night, up in the tiny spare room that let in drafts but didn’t seem to be able to let them back out, so Blaine curled himself into a stiff knot under the blankets, staring through the window at the velvet sky. Stars pierced through the darkness, twinkling brightly against the glass of Blaine’s window, and he watched them, pulling the blanket more tightly up to his chin. Blaine had always wondered how stars had gotten up there in the first place – he rather liked the idea of someone slingshotting them out into orbit, one at a time for hundreds of years, but Blaine also knew that idea was childish.

            Was he childish for feeling so hurt by Quinn’s news? For feeling like his whole world was being slowly pulled from his grasp, and he was too weak to hold on tighter? He was afraid – so, so afraid – that Quinn and Noah would not want him anymore, that they would be enraptured by their new miracle, their new child, and they would forget all about Blaine. He knew – at least, he thought he knew – that they wouldn’t, because they were his parents, and they loved him, but the doubt lingered, a rough edge to his dreams as he drifted off.

  Despite his uncertainties, Blaine thrived. He took a great liking to Abigail, Kurt’s grandmother, who seemed to find a sense of camaraderie with Blaine. She talked to him like an adult, often in words he didn’t quite understand, but Blaine liked feeling like an adult around her. He learned from Abigail’s vocabulary, often looking up the big words in Noah’s thick dictionary so he could better understand them, and she would spell them out for him as he practiced his shaky penmanship. She called it chickenscratch, but Blaine didn’t mind because the word always made him laugh.

            Abigail played piano, and Blaine would often sit quietly at her side as she played, beautiful, haunting melodies pouring from beneath her fingers, and Blaine would wonder at the simplicity of it, how just wood and coiled metal could make something so utterly lovely. Abigail would guide his stumbling fingers over the ivory, his notes clunky and jumbled, but he quickly got the hang of the rhythms and soon enough he could make it through an entire tune without any help. She praised him every day, and if Blaine had feathers, they would be ruffled in pride.

            Blaine adored Abigail and the days he spent with her, but his favorite days were when Kurt came to visit.

            Kurt was like a burst of sunshine to Blaine’s day, a bright, exuberant, carefully-worded light that spun through the dim house, and Blaine could only follow dumbly in his wake. He loved Kurt’s laugh, a high, excited cacophony of bells; he loved Kurt’s eyes, stained glass and seafoam. He loved how Kurt talked to him like an old friend, not some odd stranger who was friends with his grandmother. Kurt made Blaine feel as normal as anyone else.

            But then there were those times when the light would glint just right off Kurt’s hair, or he would glance up at Blaine through his thick lashes, and Blaine would be overwhelmed by that feeling, the one that caught in his throat and stole the air right out of his lungs. Kurt was pretty, Kurt was beautiful, but Blaine wasn’t supposed to think that, and sometimes the ache of knowing that would build in Blaine’s chest until he could hardly stand it.

            Abigail would read to Kurt and Blaine when Kurt visited, bedtime stories when Kurt’s hair was still wet from the shower and Blaine was warm and cozy in his striped pajamas, every night, once, twice, three times until they begged for more even though their eyes drooped with exhaustion. Blaine would fall asleep warm and content in his bed, images from the book, grandfather clocks with kangaroo legs and owls who chimed, scampering through his dreams.

            “Blaine, Blaine, wake up!” Blaine squeaked a little in surprise, recoiling from the voice in his ear and fumbling for his glasses. A small shape bloomed out of the darkness, hair sticking on end, eyes luminous with moonlight.

            “Kurt?” Blaine whispered, blinking away the sleep that clung heavy in his eyes.

            “Of course it’s me, who else would it be?” Kurt latched onto Blaine’s pajama sleeve and tugged. “I wanna show you something.”

            “I’m not really supposed to wander around the house at night,” Blaine said hesitantly, and Kurt’s eyes rolled, flashing the whites before the blue returned, skeptical.

            “Are you chicken?” he asked slyly, and Blaine immediately threw the covers back, the floor chilly as it met his bare feet. Kurt beamed.

            Their cold feet creaked along the floorboards, toes pointed and breath bated as they made their way downstairs, stretching over the step that always creaked.

            “Come on, slowpoke!” Kurt hissed, taking the last two stairs in a leap and scampering lightly into the living room, ushering Blaine along. Blaine limped after him as quickly as he could, joints stiff, and Kurt pulled up the edge of a lumpy blanket fort that draped over the couches and end tables, grin wide and bright in the darkness.

            “Did you make this?” Blaine asked in a hushed voice. Kurt nodded, puffing with pride. He ducked under the blanket, bare feet kicking as he wriggled inside. Blaine followed after a moment’s hesitation, bending gingerly and shuffling into the small, humid space. Kurt’s eyes glinted at him as Blaine settled himself to the carpet and Kurt pressed a book of matches into Blaine’s hand. Kurt’s fingers were cold against Blaine’s and Blaine lit the single candle Kurt offered after only a second of pause.

            Light flared up, flames dancing, casting blurred shadows onto the lines and creases of the sheet. Kurt smiled and wedged the candle into the metal candlestick, patterns of light reflecting off his teeth. They were silent for several long, heavy seconds, just watching each-other over the wavering candle, the only sounds the inhale and exhale of their breath and the house around them.

            Finally, Kurt spoke, just a whisper. “I’ll tell you a secret if you tell me one?”

            Blaine didn’t think he had many secrets to tell, but he nodded anyway. He felt safe under the drape of blankets, the warmth of the candle and Kurt’s eyes.

            “My mama died a while ago, and my papa cries a lot,” Kurt said softly, throat clenching around a rough swallow. “He thinks I don’t know, but his eyes get so puffy and red from it.” Kurt fidgeted with the hem of his pajama shirt before he looked up, jerking his chin at Blaine. “Your turn.”

            Blaine bit his lip, watching rivulets of wax run down the sides of the candle. He didn’t think anything he said would be able to compare to Kurt’s secret, but Kurt was waiting, legs folded and hands clasped patiently in his lap.

            “I’m not as old as I look,” Blaine said finally, and Kurt nodded solemnly.

            “I thought so.” He scooted forward, hand rising into the space above the candle.  “Can I…?” Blaine’s tender, inexperienced heart fluttered a little.

            “Sure,” he whispered, eyes flickering down as Kurt’s small fingers traced over the lines in Blaine’s face, gently and barely there, like the whisper of Blaine’s expected death behind a closed door, the baby growing in Quinn’s belly, the settling of the house. Blaine looked up, watching Kurt as Kurt’s eyes roamed over his face, so intently that Blaine could almost feel the weight of Kurt’s gaze more than he could feel his fingers.

            “You don’t seem old, like my grandma,” Kurt murmured, dropping his hand to his lap and cocking his head to the side. “Are you sick?”

            Blaine shrugged, Kurt’s touch still burning against his cheek. “I heard Mama Quinn telling Noah that I was supposed to die soon, but I’m still here.”

            A quirky grin cracked Kurt’s face and he rested his chin in his palm, the shadows making his hair look shades darker. “You’re odd,” he said softly, and Blaine smiled shyly, ducking his head to stare at his chilly feet.

            “I, um, I think you’re really pretty, Kurt.” His words all stumbled into each-other and he instantly felt foolish. He shouldn’t have said that – Mama Quinn hadn’t told him to be careful for nothing. Oh, he was so stupid, always ruining everything –

            “Really?” Kurt’s voice was surprised, and Blaine peeked up to see Kurt smiling. He nodded jerkily. “Thanks,” Kurt whispered, and he tucked his knee under his chin, watching Blaine with the traces of his smile still lingering in the lines of his cheeks.

            The candle flickered between them and shadows of dragons breathed fire on the sheet above their heads, and they stayed there, voices hushed with the secrecy of their hideaway, until the wax swallowed up the light and Kurt’s eyes became just pools of navy in the thick darkness.

            Blaine wished they could stay there all night.