Blaine couldn't remember how he made it up to Kurt's room, be he woke up well before the sun, enveloped in the scent of Kurt. He inhaled deeply, taking in the smell; fresh turned soil hinted within in the main scent of the cucumber and mint soap Kurt made, tinged with a deep musky smell that lingered after a long day of work, or more likely the exertion of making Blaine come undone. Still in the haze between sleep and wakefulness, Blaine reached over for Kurt confused to why they were not wrapped around each other like normal. However, Blaine's hand found nothing but the smooth cold sheets beside him. All at once, the events of the previous day hit him and his breath hitched at the realization. Kurt was gone.

Reluctantly, Blaine opened his eyes. In the faint light of the room, nothing seemed changed, but the space felt lifeless and cold. His eyes burned when he spotted the bright red sarong hanging over the end of the mattress in the same place it landed when they discarded it. Kurt was really gone, and who knew when or if he would be coming back. Blaine scrubbed his hands down his face, feeling emptier than he had ever known he could. He wanted nothing more than to languish away in this bed feeling the anguish Kurt's absence left him with; but knowing Kurt was counting on him made him roll out of bed. He had work to do.

Blaine meticulously made his way through the morning chores, letting Kurt's shadow guide him through the tasks they had shared since that first weekend. He milked, collected, and fed; he baked, cooked, and ate; he weeded, watered, and harvested. All this he did with no joy, just the simple knowledge that it must be done. Before heading back to the house he made the long trek down to the mailbox, knowing that it was too soon to have heard anything from Kurt, but needing to try just the same. He washed mechanically, barely allowing himself to take in the smell of the soap as he worked it into a lather. As he stepped out of the shower, he didn't know what to do with himself anymore. If Kurt were here, they would eat before heading to the loft. Without Kurt though, what was Blaine to do there? Kurt was not there to watch and entertain as he made beautiful works of art. Kurt was not there to pass the hours in riveting conversations about the most important and the most trivial of matters. Not knowing what to do Blaine headed downstairs.

Quinn's sad eyes and concerned face did nothing for Blaine but make him want to succumb to the weight of his sorrow pressing down on him. He knew that if he started crying now he wouldn't stop until he heard from Kurt again. That was truly the worst part, not only Kurt's absence but also the uncertainty of the situation. Not knowing what was happening was killing Blaine. Seeing Quinn look at him, properly look at him the first time in months with so much pity in her eyes drove Blaine out of the house. He just meant to hurriedly run into the loft to retrieve his guitar, but once there his eyes fell on their paintings, so recently finished, leaning against the workbench. Blaine couldn't pull himself away. For hours, he sat staring at the images he knew were them in one of their happiest, freest moment, his guitar laid silently across his lap. He didn't emerge from the loft until the next morning his back sore from sleeping fitfully on the hard wooden floor.

The next week was spent in the same manner, though gradually Blaine began adding his own sound track. Staring at the last painting; the one that Blaine knew was Kurt, he played to him. Mostly love songs, their melody slowed tinged with longing filled the space until Blaine's fingers began to stumble and his voice shake with the tears he didn't let fall. Then silence would fall over the loft and Blaine would let his mind wander and wonder what Kurt was doing. He had still heard nothing from him since his departure. During such a silence, a full week after the last time Blaine had seen Kurt's tear streaked face, the sound of gravel crunching under tires drifted up to the loft. It was a sound that now filled Blaine with dread.

He sat frozen, staring still at the paintings, his mind racing to who it could be this time? Jeff with Nick in tow wanting to tell him just how sick they thought he was. His father fully aware of whom and what he was ready to toss him out. Carole to inform them of Kurt's incarceration or untimely death. Different images and scenarios played through his mind. He was so caught within his own brain he missed the first call out from the driveway. The creaking of the barn door pulled him from his thoughts and he heard an excited voice call out, "Kurt!"

Blaine remained silent anger and hurt vying for his attention. Puck called out again closer now. "Guys whatever you are doing, put it away I have a lot to tell you." Blaine looked over slowly, just in time to see Pucks head pop over the floor of the loft. He saw his expression shift from salacious to confused, when he spotted only Blaine there. "Blaine where's Kurt?" he asked looking around the space as he pulled himself off the ladder, as if Kurt could be hiding there unseen.

"Gone." Blaine said flatly.

Puck ran his hand through his long hair, eyeing Blaine with even more confusion, "What do you mean gone?"

Tears prickled at Blaine's eyes unbidden, he squeezed his fists until his knuckles ached, willing them away. "Where were you, we expected you over a week ago," Blaine said instead of answering.

"Something big came up, then something else. That's what I wanted to talk to you two about. Where is he?" Puck said, once again stupidly sweeping his eyes around the place. His eyes caught in the boxes of supplies still packed and ready to go, they widened, and he looked at Blaine worry clearly written on his face now. "Blaine?"

Blaine unfurled himself from his position on the floor. "We waited for you! We needed you here and you never came and now he's gone!" Blaine launched himself at Puck, anger taking over. His right fist connected soundly with Puck's jaw, splitting his knuckles on impact making them both cry out in pain. That didn't stop Blaine, he continued hurling punches at any part of Puck he could reach. Puck for his own part covered his head and let the hits fall against his arms, shouting out in surprise as he backed against the wall next to the ladder. It wasn't long before Blaine's hits became weaker and Puck was finally able to catch his fist stilling his movement.

Blaine stood there panting, seeing the hurt and confusion of Pucks face. He knew that it wasn't his fault; he couldn't have known what his delay would mean. Blaine just wanted someone to blame, but he knew that Puck cared, probably more than most. His anger gone, Blaine collapsed against Puck in tears once more. They stood there while aching sobs wreaked Blaine's body once more, Puck awkwardly patting his back, eyes searching the area for some clue as to what had happened while he was away. When Blaine calmed down to merely hitched breaths Puck tried again.

"Blaine, man, you have to tell me what happened, please before I wig out."

With stilted words and added tears Blaine told him everything, from Carole's arrival to Finn's, to Kurt's leaving the farm. Puck silently listened, his body and face growing tenser the more Blaine talked. "Son of a bitch! God damned son of a bitch! If I ever get my hands on him I swear I will kill him."

"Good luck with that," Blaine said darkly, "he's all the way in Vietnam by now."

This made Puck stop his frantic pacing. "What?" he asked.

"Finn was being sent to 'Nam, his mom said."

"Fuck!" Puck sat down, grabbing his hair in fists. "Damn, he was my best friend before you know. The last year, it's been Kurt, but before that, Finn and I were tight. Now... now he has betrayed Kurt and is off about to get himself killed."

"I can still hate him, right?" Blaine asked, only half joking.

Puck looked at him, compassion clear in his expression, "I think you have every right."

Puck was able to coax Blaine out of the loft, instructing him to go wait in the house. Blaine heard the truck drive off again. Quinn was waiting in the kitchen, Beth on her hip a pot of black-eyed peas on the stove. "You finally decided to join me for supper I see."

Blaine nodded, their conversation was polite but stilted until Puck returned almost an hour later, two six pack of beer swinging from his hands. They ate under Quinn's insistence, before Puck led him to the clearing. He laid out palettes for the two of them and lit a fire while Blaine watched sipping on his first beer. He hated the taste, but the promised numbness kept him from putting it aside. Puck talked about music, trying to distract Blaine as they drank. He didn't really like the way his head began to feel light or his mind became loopy, but it was taking the weight off of him that had been pressing in on him with Kurt gone. He let the apathy of alcohol wash over him until he drifted off to sleep.

The headache the next morning did nothing but make Blaine fell worse than he had all week, something he thought was impossible. He didn't even have the work to distract him from the fact that Kurt was not there. Puck insisted on doing the chores alone, but when he discovered Blaine curled on Kurt bed when he came in from the fields, crying into the sheets, he knew it was a bad idea. From that day on, they worked together. It was not the same as working side by side with Kurt, but it helped ease the loneliness. Instead of retreating to the loft alone, Blaine would sit on the porch most days with Puck picking out tunes together. Puck helped Blaine hang the three paintings in Kurt's room and didn't press for answers when Blaine refused to explain what they were. It was a kind of torture sleeping again in Kurt's bed, but Blaine couldn't bring himself to leave the space again. While it hurt to be surrounded by Kurt and not be able to be with him, the thought of distancing himself from any reminder hurt more. Blaine had to cling to any shred of Kurt he could.

Weeks passed with no word from Kurt, and Blaine began to panic. Each day the empty mailbox stood there like an open wound turning Blaine's stomach with dread. What if Kurt had changed his mind, was still determined to set Blaine free? What if his fears had come true and he died bleeding in some barrack or prison cell? What if he told Finn about them, trying to get him to understand, trusting him like the brother he was meant to be; and in return, Finn beat him until his last breath escaped his body? Weeks passed and unbidden images barraged Blaine's mind to the point he thought he would truly go mad as he lay in bed surrounded by everything Kurt.

During the day, Puck tried to distract him with any conversation he could think of. Blaine willingly took it, latching onto whatever subject came up. It was one day a week after Puck's reappearance that Blaine finally learned the details of his delay. They were sitting on the porch picking out a new melody together when Puck explained, "When I got to the commune in New Hampshire on my way back here, there was a message waiting for me from this guy I had sold to in New York wanting to meet with me. I figured I still had a few of Kurt's pieces, and the guy had paid top notch before, so it was probably worth my while to see what he wanted. Now this guy isn't my typical hippie client, naw, he lives in this swank apartment in the Village, working for some big wig company or another. No, he ain't no hippie, I was selling paintings one day in Central Park when he happened by, liked Kurt's work and bought a couple of pieces. Paid three times what I normally get. He wanted to know how to get a hold of me so I told him about the commune, they have a phone there, I usually make it out there every few weeks, told him it was the best way to catch me. I guess he did."

Blaine wasn't sure where this story was going, but he was used to the rambling way Puck had started talking to him. He nodded along, not ready to add anything so Puck continued. "Anyway, I show up at his place and he says he's got this friend owns a gallery and really likes Kurt's stuff and wants to meet with me as his 'representative'. Guy even put me up in his place while we waited to set up a meeting with the guy. Apparently owning a gallery and having a high paying job means that you are busy, cause it was a few days before I got the meet the man. Essentially, he liked what Kurt does and wanted to set up a showing in his place. That is one thing that I wanted to talk to him about when I got back. Soon I guess I'll have to go into towns and call the guy, tell him what's happened."

"We don't even really know what's happened yet." Blaine chocked out trying to reign in his emotions.

Puck nodded sadly, "yeah, I know man." He then perked up, flicking his long hair behind him, "but that wasn't all I wanted to tell you. In everything it didn't seem so important, but man this is big, the hugest!"

"Okay, so what is it?" Blaine prompted Puck to fill the silence once more, trying to turn his thoughts away from the myriad of fates that could have befallen Kurt in the last two weeks of silence.

"So, you know I told you that guy lived in the Village right? Well I guess he was a faggot like you, cause late one night this guy shows up, banging on the door. Tells John some heavy shit just went down at some bar. Seems the cops tried to raid this one place and the queers, they fought back. I'm not saying a couple but like a full-blown riot, throwing things, yelling, and shit. It wasn't just that night though, it lasted almost a week. I asked John if I could stay see how it panned out, told him I had some good friends who would be interested. I'd never seen anything like it. Guys yelling things like they are the pink panthers, queens hitting pigs with their purses and throwing shirt. Kids our age, ya know, fighting. Seemed important." Puck finished with a shrug.

Blaine couldn't help but think back to the conversation he had with Kurt months ago. Maybe finally they could start fighting back. He just wished Kurt were there to talk about it. Instead, Blaine picked another tune out on his guitar and thought. He let his mind wander to a place and time where Kurt was here back, and they could be free to be with each other anywhere. It seemed like such a pipe dream, but he couldn't help but smile at the image of being able to walk hand in hand with Kurt down the street without fear. He pictured it and played, ignoring Pucks sideways glance at the love song falling from his fingers. Like he had told Kurt, he had to hope, because sometimes that is all you have.

Three weeks after last glimpsing Kurt's face as it disappeared down the driveway, Blaine made another trip to the mailbox. He was alone, his insistence, not wanting anyone else there when a letter finally came. He was just closing the rusted metal box, empty once more, when a cloud of dust billowing up on his right caught his eye. Haloed by the cyclone of dirt, an all too familiar car came hurtling towards him. Blaine shielded his eyes as Jeff's car came to a stop beside him on the driveway.

"Blaine!" Jeff cried in elation at seeing his friend standing there.

A slow smile cracked on Blaine's face as he took in Jeff's easy greeting. It was almost as if nothing had changed; then again, maybe to Jeff things hadn't. Blaine opened the door of the car and greeted his friend with a hug complete with a few slaps on the back. It really was good to see someone who knew him so well; though he dreaded having to explain Kurt's absence once again, especially not knowing any more details than he did.

Luckily for Blaine, he didn't have to explain anything yet, as Jeff rambled on about his adventures over the last two months. He looked good; happy, and excited though dirty and tired. "Some nights I can't sleep, not really knowing anyone, but I have only had to curl up in the backseat a couple of times. Usually I find people to stay with. It has been intense, but so cool; who knew there was so much happening outside the walls of Dalton," he told Blaine as they unloaded his bag from the car. "So where's Kurt?" Jeff finally asked looking around the farmyard.

Blaine's reprieve was over, so he explained as calmly as he could. As he talked, he noticed Puck emerge from the house and stand leaned against one of the post, his arms crossed over his chest as if on guard. Blaine tried to throw him a smile at him in reassurance though it turned out more of a grimace, his body not able to reconcile the gesture with the stir of emotions taking abut Kurt brought now.

Jeff's eyes widened and he looked distraught as he learned what little they knew of Kurt's fate. "That's heavy, I'm sorry man."

They sat together around the purple table eating lunch, small talk filling the once lively kitchen. "Yeah, I came back here because I thought you wouldn't want to miss it." Jeff explained as they munched on fresh vegetables. "In a few days, they are supposed to be broadcasting a man walking on the moon. Who knows this may be the first of many, but still seemed like a once in a life time experience."

"There's no TV here." Blaine reminded him.

Jeff's laugh exploded in the room, a sound that had been banished for weeks from the house, startling everyone but Jeff himself. "I know that. I talked to my parents the other day; they are going to the Richardson to watch, so my house should be free. I thought we could all load up and watch there."

Three days later found the five of them stuffed into Jeff's car, music blaring through the speakers as they made their way to Marion to the Sterling house. Blaine had been reluctant to leave, only relenting once Puck pointed out they wouldn't leave until after the mail truck came by and before its return. As a hopeful measure, Blaine went one-step further and left a note on his pillow, incase Kurt returned while they were gone. They arrived well before the broadcast, and Quinn almost begged Jeff to be allowed to use the shower. Apparently over a year without running hot water was almost too much for the girl and she couldn't miss the opportunity now that it presented itself to her. Jeff grabbed sodas from the fridge as they sat in front of the television and watched Beth play on the plush carpet.

Watching Neil Armstrong take those small steps seemed like something out of a sci-fi movie to Blaine as they watched it play out I grainy black and white. It was amazing and awe inspiring; though he couldn't do anything but wish Kurt was there with him to watch. He also couldn't help but think, if they could put a man on the moon, why couldn't they find peace and acceptance here on earth. On the way home, they stopped at a drive in for burgers, Blaine opting only for fries and a malt, thoughts still trained on his heart miles away.

The note still resting on the pillow sent a new wave of hurt through him. He crumpled it up, wrapped himself around Kurt's pillows and forced himself to sleep. His dreams were filled with blue eyes, chestnut hair and words of love falling from kiss pinked lips.

Before he left the farm the next morning, Jeff insisted that Blaine go with him. "Kurt's not here man, there is nothing keeping you here," he had said.

"I can't," Blaine told him, not meeting his eyes, but looking off to the place where he knew their meadow lay. "I'm here until he writes. I can't leave not knowing what has happened, especially not where no one can find me."

Jeff reluctantly agreed, promising to try to stop by before he headed back home and to school at the summer's end. It was bittersweet letting Jeff drive off. The part that felt tortured left at the farm without Kurt there, longed to join him in his rumblings; but the larger part felt relieved to see him drive away so he could get back to the routine he had built trying to keep his sanity. His routine made it easier to keep hope alive and just let the days pass. Nothing changed; they blurred together masking the length of time since he had last seen Kurt's face. The days may have blurred together, but Blaine could still tell you how long it was since he told Kurt he loved him for the first and last time. It was easier though when nothing marked the days that passed. He could sometimes forget. Usually he didn't.

A few more days passed, over a month since Kurt was forced from the farm; Blaine made his way once again to the mailbox, only this time it wasn't empty. Two envelopes lay waiting for him; one addressed to Quinn Fabray, the other to B. Anderson c/o Quinn Fabray. Blaine collapsed against the post as the tore open the letter and began to read.

July 30, 1969

My dearest B,

It seems like forever since I last saw your face. I wish this letter could bring you comfort, but I am afraid it won't. Apparently the United States Army really wanted me, because no matter what I said, they insisted I was their man. Things went just about as well as they did the first time; being a pacifist isn't enough to get me out of joining as for the other thing... I told them again, and answered their questions truthfully and though they were the answers they were looking for, the man I talked to said it was only to be expected since I would know what to say this time. So here I am, here by the way is Fort Jackson, South Carolina.

To my surprise, they didn't thrust a gun in my hand upon my arrival, apparently that happens once you finish basic training. No, the first thing they did was shave my head. I think that asshole took extra pleasure in shearing me; he even switched blades and cut mine shorter than everyone else. I swear it hasn't been this short since I was a baby. I was a lot cuter then nearly bald than I am now. (Really, go up to the attic and look at the photo albums!) I think that was their first step in trying to break me. They took away something that made me feel like me.

You should see me (or maybe not, though I would love to feast my eyes on you) hair buzzed so short I look bald, drab green uniform, and combat boots. I am a far cry from the man you met that day at the farm. I miss my bright clothes, and my hair. (but most of all I miss you!)

Right now, there is a lot of running, marching, and standing around being yelled at. Everything has to be done a certain way and at a certain time. Literally everything here is out of our control. They tell us exactly how to make our bunks, how to organize our trunks, when to eat, when to sleep, when to wake up. All of our time is up to them. It's ridiculous and I guess I have never been very good at just following orders, which should be enough to explain my silence.

Actually, that is not true... I have no problem with making my bunk, or waking at the ass crack of dawn, or any of the physical stuff they ask (tell) us to do. I don't even really have a problem with the standing at attention or marching along like mindless drones. I have no reason to object to them, so I do it with very little lip. No, the real problem came from my drill instructor's interest in my eating habits. (That and some of the things he likes to yell at us, sometimes my tongue acts before I can think, but more on that later.) The mess hall is like something out of my worst nightmare. Not only is the food in general overcooked swill but the smell of cooked flesh permeates everything. Even starving after a morning of running for miles, I lose my apatite just walking in the place. It takes all I have just to be able to force down what few nonmeat things they give us. At first, he just tried to suspend my mail privileges, and as much as I wanted to assure you I was alright, I just couldn't bring myself to eat dead flesh. In the end I think he finally believes me that I really can't eat the stuff; unfortunately it took him forcing it down my throat, and me ralphing all over his combat boots in the middle of a very disgruntled mess hall for him to understand this. Now, the other guys happily eat whatever I can't stomach and he just looks the other way.

So now, I can finally write to you.

Things are different here, and not in a good way. The other guys seem fine, even those who chose this seem nice. But I can feel the hate all around. We don't really talk about the war; I guess it is an unspoken rule. And race isn't really an issue here, people bunk right beside anyone, and no one cares. But I know if they knew about me, they would hate me. Here the worse insults the drill instructors have are cocksucker, fairy, faggot... you get the idea. I won big ball points when the D.I. asked me if I was a cocksucker and I gave him a loud "sir, yes sir!" right back. If they only knew...

We shower together, and I try my best to keep my eyes averted without looking like I am trying to keep my eyes averted. And don't worry it's not because I want to look, trust me I would rather be looking at your gorgeous body than anything these men have to offer... it's just knowing I can't look, that if I do they will somehow know, that makes it hard not to. You know how when you're a kid and your mom makes a batch of cookies, but tells you, you can't eat them because they are for company; even if you didn't want them, part of you wants to try and grab one just because it's there. I don't think I am making much sense, just know that I only want you. Fear is just painting everything in weird colors. I miss not being scared of people finding out is all.

It's weird. I talk about you, but I have to be very careful though. One night, one of the first where the D.I. left us alone, we sat around talking. Most of the guys started talking about all the tail they got, or the girls they left at home. One of the guys, Hamilton, he asked me, "you got a girl back home?" I told him, "I got a steady." I try never to refer to you as a girl directly, I mainly use careful crafted turns of phrase. You are mainly my steady, my sweetheart, or my B. (of course, I think they assume you are my Bea.) They asked about you, I told them mainly the truth, your name is B (Bea) and you have long beautiful curls, an amazingly brilliant mind, and a body to die for. I'm sure they are picturing you with a tiny waist and boobs so big you would fold in half, but I like the truth so much better. I miss your body, hell I miss your mind. I just miss you.

It's torture being away from you and not knowing when I will see you again. I wish I wouldn't have been so god damned stupid and told you I love you before. I do, I love you more than anything. You amaze me every day. You are so beautiful; I wish you could see yourself through my eyes. I miss being able to run my fingers through your curls, they are so soft and when I'm finished so wild and free. I miss kissing you; I miss holding you and being held. I miss every inch of you. But most of all I miss talking to you. I miss seeing your face light up when you are excited. I miss hearing you play your guitar (please don't stop). I miss your presence, knowing all I have to do is look over and you are there. I miss you and love you so much. I wish we had run away when we had the chance. I think that is my biggest regret.

I have been telling anyone I meet here that I can't fight, that I won't fight. I'm hoping that I can get a non-combative assignment once basic is over. Maybe then I can come see you, maybe when I get leave. Two years... that's what they have me for. We can do this; we can get through. We just hope that I can avoid Vietnam.

You will wait for me though wont you? I mean I would understand if you don't want to; but I think it would break what little of me I feel I have left, but I would understand. Two years is a long time... just know that I want no one else, I love you. You have my heart, every piece of it. If you decide you are done waiting, just please let me know before you move on. That is all I ask.

I would love to promise to write home every day, but not much changes here, and unless you want to hear a play by play account of every hike and run, I am afraid I would bore you. So, I will just promise to write you back as soon as I get a letter. I hope things are good at the farm. I want to hear everything about you and what you have been doing. Please make me feel like I am there, every detail. I want something to good dream about.

I love you with all my heart.

All my loving,

K

P.S. When that clod hacked off my hair, I managed to snag a piece. I thought you might want it. I know it's kind of silly, so don't feel obligated, but I sent it to you just in case. Love you!

Blaine looked in the envelope and sure enough, there was a lock of hair curled up in the bottom. He gently fingered the strands as they lay limp and lifeless at in the space. He thought back to how he used to relish running his fingers through the long locks, how they used to brush and tickle his face as Kurt's lips caressed his own, how they used to shine and flutter in the sun framing Kurt's gorgeous face.

Blaine clutched the letter like a lifeline and rushed back up the driveway to the house. After basically thrusting the other letter in Quinn's hand, he hurried to Kurt's room. On the bed that still faintly carried the scent of Kurt, he read the letter twice over again, tracing each stroke of the pen as he took in each word once more. Only then did he lay the letter down to search the room for his own paper and pen. Blaine's pen flew across the page as he described in as much detail as he could everything of the last month. He told him about the despair and loneliness, of Puck's return along with the reason for his delay, the meeting and the riots. He described how different it was working with Puck, and how much he longed for it to be Kurt by his side. He told him of Jeff's arrival and watching history in the making, only wishing he could share it with Kurt. The words flew out of him with the same yearning that filled Blaine the past month, just needing to share this with Kurt. It felt freeing knowing where Kurt was, what he was doing and being assured of his safety if only for the moment; but he was still filled with questions. They filled the paper next, jotted down in the scrambled order they jumped into his mind. As the questions died out, he wrote straight from his heart. He told Kurt his worries, his fears, but most of all of his deep love. He assured Kurt again that he would wait forever for him.

He wrote for hours, filling each page in his small, slanted scrawl. Only when the small stack of paper was completely filled, did he sign a flourishing B, his words spent. He was exhausted, emotionally and physically. Looking down at the page Blaine could see blurred splotches where unnoticed tears had fallen. He reached up and wiped any strays from his face. He was just about to get up to search for an envelope when a knock came to the door. Without further invitation, the door swung open to reveal Quinn standing there holding out a plain white envelope. "I thought you might need this," she said approaching him slowly, as if he were a wounded animal prone to strike even at those trying to help it.

Blaine stood slowly and took the envelope unable to form and words of gratitude. "We know he's safe," she said trying to catch his eyes.

Blaine looked up at her then, "No, we know he is alive. He's not safe; as long as he is in the army, as long as he is out there, he will never be safe." It broke Blaine's heart again to have to utter those words; but he knew they were true. Safety was not a guarantee the army made. He thanked Quinn as he took the envelope from her hands, a silent dismissal she seemed to understand. He folded the pages neatly and stuffed them into the envelope. He carefully copied the address from Kurt's letter on the front. Before closing the flap over its bulky contents, Blaine walked over to the dresser and pulled out of pair of sharp scissors he knew Kurt kept there. Without a second thought, Blaine pulled on looping curl away from his head and snipped it from its place. He kissed it gently, whispering, "I love you Kurt" before adding it to the envelope. The cloying taste of paste stuck to his tongue after he licked the flap and pressed it shut. Blaine let the weight of his letter weigh in his hands for a moment. This was what the next two years would consist of; long heartfelt letters, signed only with his initial in the hopes to keep the man he loved safe. Blaine swallowed the lump in his throat before grabbing his wallet and keys and heading out the door.

Blaine hurtled down the road, racing to the post office in the unfamiliar town. It was getting late when he finally pulled up in front of the small building. A few older people walked down the sidewalks, heading home, or to the store. When their eyes landed on Blaine, they either stared; eyeing him with distrust, or averted their eyes, as if he was something horrible to look upon. It was then he remembered this was the first time since leaving his parents house that he had truly left the farm. Their trip to the Sterling's they had met no one but the lone drive in attendant, a young girl who smiled coyly at them crammed into Jeff's car. These people saw him with different eyes. They saw his wild curly hair, the bell-bottoms Kurt had styled for him one late spring day, his dirty converse and plain t-shirt. They didn't see the well educated prep boy he had been just months prior; they saw a dirty hippie. Blaine hated them in that moment, hated that they judged him for finding happiness in his own freedom. He was still relatively the same polite boy they would have met back in March with a kind smile. Though he hated them, he wanted to prove better than them, so he fastened on a friendly smile and walked into the post office, ignoring their rude stares.

He waited patiently in line behind an old woman mailing a package; Blaine imagined it was a box of freshly baked cookies for her grandchildren that lived too far away to enjoy them in person. They were the only customers in the place, so when she started to leave, Blaine backed up to open the door for her. She threw him a disapproving look as she passed through the door. He continued to smile at her as he wished her a great evening.

The postman behind the counter sneered at him as Blaine approached the counter and didn't offer any greeting. Blaine used all the charm taught to him at school as he said, "I would like to by your biggest book of stamps please."

"We have books of 20 and 50." The man told him.

"I would like the book of 50 then." Blaine said with a smile.

"Three dollars." The man said shortly.

Blaine handed over a ten, bypassing the stack of ones in his wallet, wanting the man to know he didn't have to scrounge for money like he obviously thought. When the man grudgingly handed over the money and the stamps, he turned to go. Blaine stopped him saying, "I also was wondering if one stamp would be enough for this letter. I know it is kind of bulky, it's for my friend who was drafted, so I would hate for it to come back." Blaine hated calling Kurt his friend, but he also wanted to make a point to this man.

The man turned back to Blaine giving him an appraising look before taking the letter Blaine offered to him. He carefully weighed it before declaring, "You'll need two."

Blaine thanked him even as he turned and walked away. He licked two stamps and added them to the corner, before dropping it into the mailbox beside the counter beginning its journey to Kurt's hands.

Blaine spent an hour wondering the small town of Lima, offering friendly smiles at all he met. His trip set him with a determination to try to change perceptions, one person at a time. So, with thoughts of Kurt in the back of his mind, he opened doors and offered help to the residents of one small town.