Dawn broke, hazy and gray, fractured through with slivers of hesitant pink, and Blaine rose, awake before his feet touched the ground, cracking a yawn and reaching for his clothes. He dressed warmly, prepared for the bite of winter in the air, and crept down the hall, swinging Abigail Hummel’s door open in a slow, cautious arc.

            Blaine had just passed his sixteenth birthday and was fidgeting with the energy of it. He thrived and lived and loved, balancing his time between both of the families he now had, the one that smiled and bickered and loved so fiercely under the roof of his house, and the one that brawled and swore and drank too much too quickly on the sway of that tugboat out on the water. The former was the place Blaine stayed when he needed a loving smile, a firm hand, or the healing laugh of a delighted child; the latter was where he went to feel healthy and thriving with the wind at his back and the sun in his eyes from all directions as it sprang off the surface of open water.

            Blaine often wondered whether or not his time on A New Direction was in fact healing him by increments, that each morning he rose and made straight for the lines, heavy with salt under his hands, or each evening that he scarfed Artie’s meals (even the ones better suited for the seagulls) played a part in elongating his life from the years he’d already somehow snatched from the hands of fate. He felt the changes in him, now more than ever, felt his muscles pop above his skin and push against the sleeves of his shirt, felt the hardy stretch of his lungs, his legs. Blaine had never felt more alive than he did on the deck of that boat, and that feeling of absolute living was something he’d been longing to share with someone, perhaps capture it in a mason jar and bring it under their nose so they could see and feel the pulse of life rattling against the glass.

            Blaine had decided on that someone long ago.

            “Kurt,” he hissed, tiptoeing as quietly as he could towards Kurt’s side of the bed, where Kurt’s sleek hair tangled on the pillow and his nose poked out from under the heavy comforter, endearingly pink. On the far side of the queen bed, Abigail slept on, nothing more than a cloud of white hair and slow breath, like a brewing storm on an overcast day.

            “Kurt,” Blaine repeated, reaching out a gentle hand and grasping Kurt’s shoulder, a sharp ridge beneath the bedcovers. Kurt stirred, eyes blinking gradually open and peering at Blaine, still cloudy with sleep.

            “Mmph?” he questioned, and Blaine drew a finger to his lips.

            “Shh. Wanna see something? It has to be a secret, though.” At that, Kurt’s eyes cleared, immediately bright and eager. He sat up, shrugging off the blankets and stretching curled toes towards the floor.

            “Get dressed and meet me downstairs,” Blaine said softly, and Kurt nodded, already flying around the room, a tornado of the quietest sort.

            “Where are we going?” Kurt asked, voice cracking with the cold as Blaine shut the porch door softly behind them and pulled his scarf more snugly around his neck. Kurt gazed at him, questions spelling out across his face in the arch of his eyebrows. He stood merely two inches shorter than Blaine now, slender and willowy, all smooth, sharp angles and miles of limbs that were now bundled under layers of winter clothing. Blaine smiled and thumped down the stairs, rubbing his achy hands together to jumpstart feeling. Kurt trailed behind, an inquisitive shadow.

            “You’ll see.”

            The harbor was still sleeping when they arrived, snoring in dull clunks of the boats against the dock, water rippling so almost-silently that you could pretend it was your own breath. Dawn warmed at the edge of the water, a pastel pencil whose eraser smudged at the gray slate of the sky. Blaine led the way down the dock, two sets of feet thumping hollowly at the same speed, and by the time Blaine offered him a hand up to board A New Direction, Kurt was smiling. He always had been too smart for his own good; Blaine sometimes worried that Kurt would see right through him with his shrewd eyes, pull him out and stamp a label on his emotions in a way that Blaine did not even know how to do.  What would Kurt think if he knew that Blaine still harbored feelings for him inside his chest, much like these ships, all lined up and floating quietly in the water? The only difference was, the fading names along their hulls all read Kurt.

            Blaine descended the steps to the bunks with practiced feet, glancing behind him to make sure Kurt didn’t slip on the icy metal, and pressed a hand against the cracked door on the left, opening it fully.

            “Mike?” Blaine poked his head inside the cabin to see Captain Mike stretched out in his bunk, one long leg dangling along the edge of the thin mattress, snoring for all he was worth.

            “Mike!”

            Mike jerked awake, foot finding purchase on the floor before his brain did on being awake and nearly sending him sprawling to the cabin floor.

            “What’s going on?” he demanded, but his words came out garbled as one long syllable and Blaine smirked fondly, waiting with a practiced patience for Mike to drag himself into the world of the living.

            “Blaine? It’s Saturday, what the hell are you doing here?” Mike’s squinted eyes lit on Kurt, who leaned around Blaine’s shoulder, observing Mike with a quirked eyebrow. “Who’s this?”

            “This is my friend, Kurt. Can you take us out? I want to show him the river.”

            It was a sign of how far their friendship had progressed over the years that Mike did not immediately scoff and bury his face back into his pillow. Instead, he cocked his head to the side, debating. Blaine put on his best begging face.

            “Oh, all right,” Mike groaned, heaving himself off the bunk and stretching. “You better be something special, Kurt.”

            “Oh, I am.” Kurt said brightly, and Mike snorted, while Blaine did not tell either of them how right they were.

            A New Direction chugged out of the harbor at Mike’s hands and Kurt clung to the upperdeck railing, eyes bright with the sunrise.

            “It’s beautiful,” he breathed, watching the churn of the icy river beneath the boat, the catch of the light on the edges of the frothing currents. Blaine watched it in Kurt’s eyes and realized he could not agree more.

            They skimmed along for minutes that Blaine wished were hours, until the sun burst from the river and glinted in Kurt’s hair, and Captain Mike blared the horn so cheerfully that it took Blaine another ten minutes to make sure his eardrums had not dropped out of his head in search of someplace quieter. The wind whipped at their skin, pinching with frosted fingers, but neither of them complained. Kurt was too immersed in the roll of the water, and Blaine in the flush of pink on Kurt’s cheeks.

            A huge ocean liner glided past and Kurt and Blaine stared, both equally enraptured at the grace that outmatched the size. Bundled passengers waved at them from the decks, breath frosting like tiny puffs of cotton from this distance, and Kurt waved back, pale hand flying against the brittle blue of the sky.

            It was worth every second of numb cold to see the wonder in Kurt’s eyes.

            “Ma?” Blaine said hesitantly, taking a dirty plate from her hands and plunging it into the sink, soap up to his elbows and the scent of lemon in his nose. Quinn glanced up, puffing a strand of blonde hair out of her eyes as she scraped scraps of leftover food into the trash.

            “What is it, baby?” she asked, straightening up and wincing as she rubbed at a sore spot on her back. Blaine bit his lip, taking another dish from her and twirling it around in his hands.

            “What would you think if I went away for a while?” And just like that, the dishes were forgotten in favor of him. Her soft eyes were squinty with a frown as she tilted her head to the side and leaned against the counter, lips parting around a slow breath.

            “What do you mean?” she murmured, not angry, just wary. Blaine scrubbed hard at a spot of hardened lasagna as he considered his words.

            “Captain Mike and the crew have been contracted for three years with a tug and salvage company. They’re leaving for open sea in a week. Mike wants me to come.” Blaine paused, gazing into the sudsy water and wishing it could show him how to go forward. “I want to go,” he added, avoiding Mama Quinn’s eyes and the confusion in them. He didn’t have to look to know she had moved right beside him, the hands that had raised him, molded him and shaped him into the person he was now resting on his shoulder and pulling his chin around, forcing him to look at her.

            “Baby, I’m not going to be the one to stop you,” she said gently, and Blaine was taller than her now – how had that snuck up on him? His mama seemed so small now, thin and delicate with the bones of a bird, and Blaine was so afraid of hurting her, that the smallest breath might send her sprawling.

            Her head ducked and a sigh punched out of her, but when she gazed back up at him her eyes were dry. “You’re a man now, Blaine. It’s time you start your future.”

            Blaine clunked the dishes down in the sink, mindless of the soapy wave that gushed over the edge of the counter, and pulled Quinn into a hug, sudsy hands and all.

            “Thank you, Mama.” he whispered, and she snuffled against his shoulder, stroking at his back with loving hands, and Blaine realized that leaving meant he would have to let her go.

            Blaine swallowed hard and held on tighter.

            The day Blaine left was sunny but brisk, the ebb of October trailing lazy, lingering fingers through the rise of November, and Mama Quinn’s tears burned hot against the crook of his neck. He pressed a kiss to her hair, brushing his thumb over where it was fading to gray, and smiled at her with a confidence he did not feel.

            “You be careful, do you hear me?” she warned, voice thick but her eyes blazing, and Blaine nodded and squeezed her shoulder.

            “I’ll be fine, Mama, don’t worry.”

            “Give ‘em some hell, son.” Noah said warmly, smiling so wide his eyes crinkled, and Blaine hugged his father tightly, clinging so hard that Noah chuckled and dropped a kiss to Blaine’s forehead. “We’ll be here when you get back, don’t get teary on me. I don’t think your mother here would be able to take it.” Noah winked before Quinn swatted at him and he yelped, laughing and trapping her in a cage of tanned arms against his chest.

            “Go, now, while she’s contained!” he hooted, and Blaine laughed through the ache in his chest and turned for the porch stairs, a suitcase in one hand and a satchel in the other, his material world held so casually at each side of his body.

            He had said goodbye to the elderlies, grasped hands and accepted hard kisses on his cheeks and bid farewell to the familiar, wrinkled faces that wished him well.

            Blaine knew he would probably never see some of them again.

            He had said goodbye to Mr. Schuster and Emma, who now lived a few blocks down in a spotless house that smelled strongly of bleach, and Mr. Schue had held his face in both hands and told him that he would be waiting to hear Blaine’s stories if he returned, and Emma had smiled daintily and touched his cheek with the lightest of fingertips.

            He had said goodbye to Abigail, who held him silently for several moments and told him she hoped he found all the things he was looking for.

            Blaine didn’t quite know what he was looking for, but he hoped he found it, too.

            Blaine said goodbye to the house he had grown up in as his feet carried him down the walkway he’d followed under so many different conditions; bloody and lost, staggering drunk, breathless and silent with Kurt at his heels, and now, grown and searching for himself, through the whitewashed gate that he’d bruised his shins on so many times, clung to and peered over the top of when he wanted an adventure to call his own. His feet had just touched the stretch of sidewalk that posed as a runway towards the middle of his story, when a clatter and a cry jerked him around.

            “Blaine!” In a whirl of a gray sweater and boots laced up to shins, Kurt was in front of him, round cheeks flushed and eyes flashing in a way that Blaine knew would be foolish to oppose. Kurt in his teenage years was a force of nature that Blaine could usually temper, but in his haze of packing and preparing, Blaine had neglected to read the forecast.

            “Where are you going?” Kurt demanded. His arms were locked self-consciously over his chest and his toes shuffled against the sidewalk, out of place in his own body. Blaine wanted to tell this shy, unsure Kurt that he was beautiful – would always be beautiful to Blaine – but Blaine could only offer Kurt a rueful smile that held less than half of the weight as the words Blaine wanted to say.

            “Out to sea, as far as I know,” he said, and Kurt seemed to shrink a little, eyelashes fluttering as he became fascinated with the ground.

            “Oh,” he murmured, barely a breath, and Blaine took an involuntary step forward, wishing he could tell Kurt, his best friend, the solid presence in Blaine’s life from the start, something that would make him understand, make him see why Blaine had to do this, find himself in ocean waves and the rock of a boat, because he didn’t know where else to look and was afraid if he didn’t start now he never would. But Blaine’s tongue was heavy and his hands were full and Kurt was just standing there, still baby-faced and innocent, but so much more intuitive than Blaine could understand. He hoped that Kurt would see anyway, even if Blaine could not find the right words.

            “I’ll send you a postcard,” he said stupidly, and Kurt looked up at him, mouth quirking slightly in that way that Blaine knew meant he was trying not to roll his eyes.

            “You better. Send me a postcard from everywhere. I mean it.” He backtracked slowly, eyebrows raised high as he didn’t take his eyes off Blaine, daring him to oppose.

            “No goodbye?” Blaine teased, shifting his bags in his hands, and Kurt did roll his eyes this time, turning on his heel and calling over his shoulder with a tisk.

            “You know I’ll never say goodbye to you!” he sang, as if it were obvious, and then he darted up the walk, leaving Blaine standing alone in the middle of the sidewalk with a heart simultaneously flying and yet heavier than the bags he carried.

            Blaine liked to pretend that the sea was glass. In the early mornings when he rose and made his way up to the deck with the fog of sleep still clinging to the corners of his eyes and between his joints, the rising sun would slice through the waves, pink like the blush of Kurt’s cheeks and yellow like Mama Quinn’s hair. Blaine would lean against the railing with the wind in his hair, watching the sea of glass ripple and ebb with colors Blaine could not name, and he would feel calm, limbs loose and relaxed as he stood there, the only soul awake for thousands of miles.

            Of course, all glass shatters, and Finn would stumble up with huge, noisy feet and Cooper would sing to the morning at the top of his oversized lungs while Rory and Artie bickered over breakfast and Mike would holler for everyone to get to work, and Blaine would retreat from the rail, knowing he would have his moment alone with the sunrise the next morning.

            And so it was lines under his hands and bunched muscles in his shoulders, shouting until his voice was raw from the salt and brief moments watching huge boats towed behind them, marveling at the size and grandeur. As a small man with an even smaller amount of world experience, Blaine liked to stop and appreciate things that were taken easily for granted.    

            November 12, 1936

            Dear Kurt,

            You wouldn’t believe how big the world is, or how long the ocean goes on. We’ve been travelling for two weeks now, and there’s no end to it. I’ve seen so many different ports and harbors that I can’t keep them all straight anymore. You would love seeing how differently people dress and act outside of New Orleans. Everything is so new – I feel like I’ve been born into an entirely new world.

-Blaine

February 9th, 1937

Dear Blaine,

Oh, I’m so jealous! Nothing’s happening here in New Orleans, just the same old, same old. New Years was good, though – my father and I set off sparklers and watched the fireworks out at the harbor at midnight. Do you remember that one New Years we spent at the boarding house with you? I miss that.

I know it’s been months, but happy birthday! And yes, of course I remembered it. We’ve known each other for eight years, you think I would forget?
            Write me again, if you can! I loved the postcard.

Love,

            Kurt

            Blaine kept his promise to Kurt and wrote every chance he got, collecting eccentric postcards from every city and detailing all the places he’d seen, the people he’d met, in cities far bigger and teeming with more life than the one he’d left behind. He told Kurt about skyscrapers and ocean liners, how the sunset bled into the ocean and how he could feel the wind in the lines of his cheeks. He told Kurt everything. In turn, Kurt told Blaine about his fifteenth birthday, and then his sixteenth, and how his father was teaching him to drive their car. He told Blaine about his seventeenth birthday and school, and the boys who called him names and threw his books to the ground, sent sweet, headstrong Kurt home in tears, and from across the world, Blaine ached.

            September 12th, 1940

            Dear Kurt,

            I can’t know what may have happened since your last letter, but please, don’t let those boys at your school treat you like that anymore. Tell someone about it, especially if it gets worse. It’s not right of them to do that to you, and you don’t deserve any of it. I wish I could do something to help. Don’t be afraid to stand up for yourself! I watched you grow up and trust me, you’ve got courage you may not even realize you have. Don’t hesitate to use it.

            We sailed back to Florida, and I wished I could have been closer to home so I could drop by and say hello. It’s strange, knowing I’ve been out here with the boys for almost three  years now. You’d like them, I think. They’re good men, all of them, if a little loud in the mornings. Cooper especially. He’s decided to crash into our cabin every morning singing about sunshine and calling me “Squirt” or “Blainey.” Don’t know what got into his head but now the whole crew’s been doing it for weeks now. Lucky for me I’m an early riser.

            As much as I miss New Orleans, this is everything I could have dreamed of, and more. The world is a beautiful, amazing place, and can’t believe it took me this long to see it.

            Take care of yourself, Kurt. Don’t forget what I said about courage!

            -Blaine

            November 20th, 1940

            Dear Blaine,

            Well, I took your advice. Dear Azimo has a broken nose and I’ve scraped by with a month’s worth of detentions. I guess he just shouldn’t have messed with me, or my fists. Good thing my dad taught me how to throw a proper punch. I can barely write this out because my knuckles are bruised, but it was worth it.

            I’m lucky I didn’t get suspended, though; I want to apply for a college up in New York that probably wouldn’t let me in with a record. NYADA, have you heard of it? New York Academy for the Dramatic Arts. I’m sure I’ve mentioned it, all the dancing I’ve done since you left, ballet and tap and all sorts of things my father wasn’t sure about, but I love it. It makes me feel like I’m flying. I want to be up there in front of thousands of people, perform so I can hear them clap for me. Does that make me vain? I just want to be recognized, really. I’m nothing more than a boy with a dream bigger than anything I’ve had in my life so far. 

            I need to get out of this town – I love my father and your family of course, but I feel like I was made for so much more, if that makes sense. I can almost hear New York calling me. Maybe if I get in and you’re still not back, you can come visit me in that boat of yours.

            Cooper sounds like a darling, why weren’t we introduced? Blainey. Hm, good thing you’re not here right now or I would chant it at you until your ears bled.

            Your birthday’s just passed, hasn’t it? See, I still remember. I know you won’t get this until later because the mail is ridiculously slow, but that wont’ stop me from saying it anyway.

Happy Birthday, Blaine.
            Love,

            Kurt.

            “All right, who’s the girl?” Blaine jumped, nearly losing his hold on Kurt’s letter and toppling sideways onto the icy deck. Captain Mike held up his hands, returning from tying up the boat to the dock while the rest of the crew snored, a friendly grin splitting his face.

            “Whoa there, just me. So tell me, come on. All those letters… did you meet her at a port? She was that pretty blonde girl from Florida, wasn’t she?” Mike perched himself beside Blaine, clamping a cigarette between his teeth as Blaine blushed in the freezing air and fumbled for words.

            “Um, no, it’s just my friend, Kurt. Remember, I took him out on the river a few years ago.”

            “Ah, I remember him. Smart kid, almost as tall as you?” Blaine nodded and Mike lit his cigarette, exhaling a puff of smoke as the conversation gracefully dropped. Blaine smoothed Kurt’s letter carefully and tucked it into his jacket pocket, rubbing his hands together to keep them warm and gazing out at the water, a mirror image of the sky as it multiplied the stars. Sometimes, on nights like these, Blaine imagined that they were sailing up in the sky, and if he leaned over the side of the boat he could grab a handful of stars to cup in his palm until they burnt out.

            “You know, I’ve known you for quite a few years now, Blaine,” Mike said in the soft way of his, ashes from his cigarette drifting to the deck as he considered. Blaine glanced up at him, waited. “I could swear you’ve lost as many years as you’ve been here; you’ve done nothing but get stronger, and unless I’m losing my mind, taller, and I’m fairly positive you had twice as many lines in your face back then.” Mike took a drag off his cigarette, the embers setting the lower half of his face aglow in orange and he eyed Blaine, a bemused smile twisting his lips around the cigarette. Mike wasn’t strictly asking, but his curiosity was clear.

            “All true,” Blaine said, laughing nervously and hitching his knee up to his chest. He hadn’t told his crew about his condition, had never even told them his age just in case questions followed. He wasn’t ashamed of it, really; in fact, he had come to accept that this was who he was, and hating it wouldn’t change a damn thing, but it was always hard for him to explain, and harder still to navigate the questions, because Blaine himself didn’t know the answers.

            But Blaine trusted Mike, and Mike had taken Blaine under his wing despite everything, and, as his closest friend out here, Blaine figured Mike deserved an explanation.

            “I… I have a sort of… condition. A disease, you might say.” Mike’s eyebrows peaked and then furrowed, working to understand. “I’m not sick, not really,” Blaine hastened to explain, and he paused, drumming his fingers against his knee contemplatively. “I was born backwards, sort of. I don’t age like everyone else. I look sixty, but I’m actually twenty-one.”

            Mike was silent, puffing smoke rings as he frowned, and Blaine smiled sheepishly, nudging him with his shoulder.

            “Surprise?” he offered in a small voice, and Mike snorted, dragging his hand down his chin and shaking his head at Blaine.

            “So… that time… with the brothel… how old were you really?” Blaine pressed his lips together to smother a smile.

            “Fourteen.”

            “Fucking Christ,” Mike spluttered, dropping his face into his hand, cigarette a forgotten pinpoint of orange against the inky sky. “You mean to say I had you defiled at fourteen? Jesus, I’m going straight to hell.”

            Blaine laughed out loud, clapping Mike on the shoulder. “It’s okay, I left before anything happened. It just didn’t feel right. That’s why I was waiting for you out on the street.”

            “Christ,” Mike huffed again, laughing reluctantly when Blaine nudged him again and shoving his cigarette back between his lips. “Well, I apologize for that, if it still counts.”

            Blaine waved him off, propping his chin in his hand and smiling out at the silence of the ocean. “No harm done.”

            January 16th, 1941

            Dear Kurt,

            I wish I had been around to see that punch! I probably shouldn’t congratulate you for it, but I will anyway.

            NYADA sounds amazing! Of course you’ll get in, I know how hard you’ve been working the past couple years. You and New York sound like a perfect fit if you ask me.I wish I were as smart as you are when I was your age.

            We’re headed towards Russia, Murmansk, I think. We’ll be staying there through the rest of winter and doing small jobs at their harbor. I can’t believe how quickly three years passed. I’ll be home before you know it!  How are Quinn and Noah these days? Any word on them?

            I’m sorry this is so short, but the storms are crazy tonight and Mike’s calling for us to help. I’ll write as soon as I can!

            -Blaine

            February 21st, 1941

            Dear Blaine,

            I’m a finalist for NYADA! I’m so excited I could scream, and my dad is, as well. I haven’t let go of the letter and my hands are shaking so badly, so I’m sorry if you can’t read this! I can’t wait to get out of this town, Blaine, I wish I could do what you did and just jump on a boat and sail off to some great adventure.

            Your family is doing well! Noah was under the weather last time I saw him, but I’m sure he’s better by now. They miss you, of course. We all do. 

            Russia! Oh, I’ve said it before but I’ll say it again – I’m so damn jealous! I would trade lives with you in an instant. At least if I do get into NYADA I’ll be able to experience a real city. I’ll have my fingers crossed until May unless I’m careful.

            I can’t wait to see you. We have so much to talk about, letters every other month have not made up for not being able to hear your voice. I often think about what you look like now – how many years have you lost? I’m going to roll around my floor in excitement for everything today.

            Write when you can!

            Love,

            Kurt Hummel, NYADA finalist!

            Elizabeth clunks the journal down on her knee, lips pressed together and her shoulders slumped.

            “Dad, you never told me about any of this…” she murmurs, glancing up at Kurt. Kurt pulls a painful swallow and shifts in the bed, reaching out a hand for his daughter. She grips his fingers, runs her thumb over the knots and veins, looking at him like she’s never seen him before.

            Well, Kurt supposes, She never really has. Not all of me.

            “You were a dancer?” she whispers, a funny, shivering smile playing at her mouth, and Kurt wheezes out a brittle laugh, fingers squeezing faintly around hers.

            “It was a very… very long time ago, sweetheart.” Elizabeth gazes at him a moment longer, biting at her lower lip before she nods and drops her hands back to the stack of postcards she’s been reading from, alternating between the piles labeled To Kurt and the ones labeled To Blaine.  She plucks one up from the former, clearing her throat to read.

            Kurt has forgotten what heartache feels like. He has forgotten the shudder of an inexperienced heart with the strains of an orchestra in the background, the tremble of knees against a floorboard, a postcard held with a shaking hands that fold and fold until the familiar script is hidden out of sight, but not out of mind. He remembers as the words fall from Elizabeth’s lips, and he is eighteen, and it feels like his heart is breaking all over again.

            March 30th, 1941

            Dear Kurt,

            Congratulations on NYADA! You’ll be amazing in your audition, I know you will.

            You probably won’t believe what I’m about to tell you. I can barely believe it myself.

            I’ve met someone. He (yes, he. I figured I might as well come clean with everything or not at all. And I know that maybe it’s wrong, but it feels right, Kurt. I can’t explain it. I hope you understand) is everything I’ve been looking for. I don’t know what’s going to happen now, it’s a bit complicated, but I feel like…do you remember when you told me about when you dance, it feels like flying? That’s how this feels.

            To put it simply, I’m in love.

            -Blaine.