It was no longer my home.

Oh, I had the keys. And the mortgage, and a house full of furniture I seemed to remember buying. But this was not my home any more.

Because my home had been turned over to the wedding, and every caterer, band member, deejay, mover, party rental company, designer, florist and delivery crew that has this address in its Rolodex.

I have always thought a man's home — or at least his garage — was supposed to be his castle, but this wedding has taught me the truth: that a man's house is his castle until someone wants to have a wedding there. After that, you just nod your head and get out of the way.

* * *

An early sweep of contractors visiting the house to measure and estimate and quote was just a hint of things to come, Burt soon realized. Once Kurt and Blaine had finished with their wedding registries, the gifts arrived in earnest, a regular flow of UPS and FedEx and postal carriers, all delivering packages from Macy's and Jensen's and the occasional New York department store with fancy gift wrap and brand names that sounded more like law firms than designers.

Burt grumbled something about Fifth Avenue as he pointed out the latest delivery, the third that day, to Kurt.

“What I want to know is why they have to go and put the address in their name. Is it Jensen's-Main? No. Macy's-Mall? No.”
Kurt smiled knowingly. The rough translation: Your lack of savoir-faire amuses me, Dad.

“It's classic. Saks wouldn't be Saks without Fifth Avenue. It's chic,” he said, pulling a box, neatly wrapped in white pearl paper with a silver bow, from its protective shipping container.

“Well it's been chic-ing up my hallway all day,” Burt said, taking the shipping box and breaking it down so it would fold flat.

“I know, Dad. You'd like your home back. We'll start opening them as soon as Blaine gets here,” Kurt promised. “Then we can at least get rid of the packaging. In the meantime, I'll take them down to the basement.”

With a slight eye roll, and a smile that wasn't intended for his father's eyes, Kurt began collecting packages and carrying them downstairs, adding them to the growing collection. Burt followed, and slowed as he hit the lower steps.

Laid out in front of him were dozens upon dozens of boxes, all elegantly wrapped, lined up along the baseboards and nearly spilling off tables.

“It's looks like some kind of pirate hideout in here, kid.”

Kurt chuckled and focused on organizing packages.

“So what's on the itinerary with your fiancé this weekend?” Burt asked.

“With Blaine?”

“Well, unless you've got another one tucked away somewhere...”

Kurt wheeled around and shot his father a look of mild annoyance. But Burt knew better. Underneath that layer of snark was a kid that would move heaven and earth for the people he loved.

“His flight doesn't get in ‘til later, so I'm going to meet up with Rachel and Mercedes for a last fitting on their dresses,” he said. “Which reminds me — did you get your tux rented?”

Burt's face burst into a magnetic smile. “No need!” he said, crossing to the corner closet. “Look what I found.”

He pulled a garment bag from the rack and opened it to reveal a dark blue tuxedo, circa 1987. The jacket was dominated by heavy shoulder pads, and accented with broad notched satin lapels.

The fabric appeared to be some sort of dense velvet.

“Rico Suave,” Burt said, holding the jacket up against his chest and mimicking a salsa dance.
Kurt's face froze.

“No.”

“And it just about fits. I keep up those afternoon walks and keep eating those leafy greens you keep buying, and it'll be your Mom and my wedding reception all over again!”

Kurt stared at the offending garment, his face gone blank.

“No.”

Burt looked him in the eye, waited a beat, and then burst out laughing.

“Five bucks at the Goodwill, and worth every penny to see the look on your face just now.”

“Wha—?”

“I ordered one of the tuxes you picked out a couple of weeks ago. Just handed Tony the page out of the magazine and let him measure me up. Should be in on Tuesday.”

* * *

With the deliveries now stowed in the basement, Burt felt like he had at least reclaimed some space in his home. What he didn't have was control of it.

Over the course of the day, the party rental company sent a salesman by to drop off sample arbors, candelabras and plant stands for

Kurt, and to make recommendations as to how much furniture would have to be removed from the house to accommodate both the guests and the rented fixtures. (“What do you mean, the furniture has to go? Where are people going to sit, Kurt?”)

What seemed like moments after his departure, the moving company sent a representative who scoured the home, taking notes about the furniture to be moved and stored, preparing an estimate on a tablet computer as he went along.

Oh, and how could he forget the deejays? Four had stopped by already. More were scheduled after Blaine arrived.

“Doesn't Blaine want to have a say in this? He likes music, right?” Burt asked, exasperated.

“He's a musician, Dad. Of course. He loves music. But we've talked about it and we know what we're looking for, and he trusts me to narrow the field to finalists. Then we'll decide together.”

Sure enough, later that night, long after he and Carole had called it a night, he got up to get a glass of water and found Kurt and Blaine side-by-side on the couch, bobbing their heads slightly in a synchronous rhythm.

It wasn't until he stood, silent and a bit confused, for a few moments that he realized they both were wearing those little in-ear headphones, seated in front of a laptop computer. As he approached, he saw that they were both plugged in to an audio splitter, listening to set samples that deejays had sent to Kurt.

They were both oblivious to the fact that Burt was standing behind them, and went about the business of selecting both their reception music and the person who would play it.

“Really, Kurt? A boy band? You surprise me,” Blaine said, ear buds still in, speaking a little louder than he probably realized.

“And I plan on doing that for years to come,” Kurt said, pulling the tiny speaker from his ear and kissing him on the cheek. “Besides, that one's special.”

Blaine reached up and cupped Kurt's cheek with his forefingers, gently rubbing his thumb along Kurt's lower lip. Then he pulled Kurt in for a more robust kiss, at which point Burt quietly backed his way out of the room.

* * *

To be honest, Burt considered it a bit of a relief when Blaine arrived. That was something he never would have expected when Kurt had first brought his fiancé home, but Burt had come to enjoy watching a few innings of a Reds game with someone who actually enjoyed baseball. It also allowed him a few moments of respite from the chaos surrounding him.

To a degree, he suspected Blaine felt the same way. It wasn't that he was disinterested in the wedding planning — he sat at Kurt's side through every rundown of every decision to be made, from fabric swatches to wedding cake fillers. Through it all, he sat quietly, nodding his assent or scratching his chin at times in a way that Burt suspected meant he disagreed with the prevailing thought. And when Kurt decided to take a break, Blaine would wander into the den with Burt, ask for an update on the game, and quietly settle in.

It was during those times that Burt initiated what came to be known as the Lemme Ask Ya Moments, the times when he and Blaine were left alone for a while, watching a game or visiting the garage while Kurt and Carole were off somewhere, shopping or commiserating or plotting in ways neither Blaine nor Burt cared to hazard a guess about.

“Lemme ask ya something, Blaine,” it would start before diving headlong into a discussion on life, love, relationships, politics or the validity of the designated hitter rule in the American League.

“Blaine, lemme ask ya somethin',” Burt said. It was Saturday morning, and the two had agreed to meet at Hummel Tire & Lube so Blaine could get the oil changed on the his family's spare car —the one used for foul weather trips and visiting sons — while Kurt ran errands with Carole.

“Yes?”

“Why do you love my son?”

“Excuse me?”

“Why do you love my son?”

Blaine looked stunned, like he had just witnessed either an unthinkable crime or a poorly coordinated ensemble.

“Oh, don't get me wrong. He's lovable. I think he's the most lovable kid in Ohio, but I'm his dad. What I want to know is, why do you love him? And I don't want the moment to impress the future father-in-law speech.”

“Did I do that, before?”

“You sure did. Now I want the straight dope,” Burt said without missing a beat, loosening the Volvo's oil filter. “What is it about my son that makes you want to marry him?”

Blaine bit his lip, an act of both concentration and self-consciousness Burt had grown to recognize. He raised his hand to his mouth to cover the wisp of a smile crossing his lips.

“Well, first of all, we're compatible.”

“Clearly.”

“We have a lot in common.”

“True.”

“But our differences balance out well.”

“But why do you love my son?”

“There are so many things. He's smart. He's witty. He's handsome, of course...”

Burt smiled. It was the first time someone had described Kurt to him as attractive.

“He's actually... beautiful,” Blaine added, sounding for all the world like he was talking to himself rather than to his future father-in-law.

Blaine paused for a moment, thinking. “He hides it sometimes, but he cares deeply about people. He's fiercely loyal. He has standards —

I can't think of a time when he has opted for the low road.”

Burt had to stifle a laugh. Blaine really hadn't known Kurt long enough to use a phrase like ‘I can't think of a time', but he had nailed the characteristic. That was his son, through and through.

“But mostly, I think what it boils down to is his strength.”

“What?” Burt stopped his work for a moment, and wiped his hands on a shop towel.

“His strength, strength of character. Kurt has this inner confidence, Mr. Hummel...”

“Burt.”

“Um, yes. He really knows who he is, and he is fearless about sharing that with the world. I love that about him because I'm not that strong.”

“How do you mean, kid?”

Blaine gave him a look, a Really? Kid? face.

Burt caved.

“How do you mean, Blaine?” he corrected.

Blaine smiled.

Fine, score one for Blaine Anderson, Burt thought.

“Well, for example, I know that sometimes it really frustrates Kurt, the way that I pass.”

“Ah, yes.”

“People don't automatically figure me out. I mean, I get mistaken for straight, all the time. Part of it is the character on Days. And some of it's the clothes, I guess. I grew up wearing polos and oxfords, just standards, and that's what I'm comfortable with. A lot of people just don't think I look...”

“Gay?”

“Gay. There are cues, and gay men pick up on them, but I guess it's not obvious to everybody. Meanwhile, Kurt has survived years of heckling and harassment because of his fashion or his voice or whatever. People think he's feminine, but he's not. In my mind, what he wears makes him more masculine.”

“But you and your parents both said you got beat up...”

“Yeah,” Blaine said, his voice growing soft. “But that was years ago. There are moments, I guess, when... but that's all pretty much behind me. Sometimes I'm cautious, but I haven't had the sort of lifelong battle that Kurt's faced. And despite it all, he's not afraid to be himself, to express himself — including through his clothes.

“He has a creative mind, and he has a feel for the next big thing. His choices are brave. He knows that it draws attention, but it's also who he is. It's honest, and it's brave — and that, to me, is very, very masculine. Really, they kind of have it backwards.”

“I don't think I need to hear this part, Blaine.”

“Oh, no, Mr. Hummel... I don't mean...” Blaine stammered.

“Call me Burt.”

“... because that's not exclusively one or the other...”

“Blaine, please.”

“What I mean is, I love Kurt because he is strong in character. He's honest — with himself and the world — and he doesn't take shit from anyone. Oh! I'm sorry! I mean, he doesn't take guff...”

“That's okay, son, I've heard it before.”

“He's braver than I am. I love him for that, and every moment I'm with him, I feel a little stronger. He knows who he is and what he wants, and nothing is going to change that.

“I love that he's complex, and I feel like I learn something new about him every day, and that I'm sure it'll keep happening for years to come.

“And some day, when we're in our eighties and sitting on a park bench holding hands and talking about our grandkids, I plan on sitting there and listening to Kurt snark about the poor fashion choices of the mothers collected around the playground.”

Burt slapped Blaine on the shoulder, a fatherly show of support for his soon-to-be son-in-law.

Okay, Blaine Anderson, you can stay. But please, don't try to explain your sex life to me ever again.

* * *