Kurt hums to himself as he eyeballs the two Comme des Garcons shirts laid out on his bed. In his hands is his McQueen skull coin scarf. The plain white shirt would provide the best backdrop for it, or he could pair the striped shirt with the contrasting cuffs with his black and white gingham tie, go for more pattern. But there's already a lot of texture in the vintage blazer he intends to wear. With the heavy white topstitching against the dense black wool, he doesn't want to overdo it.

He kind of wants to wear the gingham tie: he wore it the first time he and Blaine exchanged 'I love you's'. But perhaps he's being too sentimental. He reconsiders the gingham tie with the white shirt. It seems too plain. Or maybe he needs to add some color, except Kurt doesn't feel like much color today. He's too saturated in nearly every other way, his stomach in strange knots of anticipation and his mind distracted and slipping with indecision. He should be able to choose a shirt and tie without difficulty, even on a Monday. But every time he closes his eyes or takes too deep a breath, there's the images painted behind his eyelids and the keen-edged sense memory fluttering in his chest of the weekend, of being with Blaine. It's like it was in the beginning of their romance, when Kurt's focus was bent so single-mindedly on the recollection of past kisses and touches and the anticipation of future ones. There's a lot more to anticipate now.

Today is Blaine's first day back at school since the assault. Kurt did see Blaine yesterday morning for brunch and to help Blaine finish a History essay. That was all ostensibly ordinary and in public, but Kurt's been feeling anything but ordinary since Friday night—and Saturday morning. It feels like eons since he's seen Blaine, though it's been less than a day. This morning is a strange echo of his mornings getting ready to drive to Dalton last year; Kurt feels like someone has put his heart in a cocktail shaker, like he's waiting, with giddy schoolboy infatuation, for the day's first glimpse of his crush.

Kurt lets out a breath and contemplates which boots to wear. At least he's got his pants on; that's one decision made. He lets the even patter of rain on the roof soothe him. It's unseasonably warm today along with the rain; perhaps Spring is coming early. The sky is darkening though, diminishing the morning light to gloom. Kurt turns on another lamp and decides on his tall black Dr. Martens: a safe and classic default.

Downstairs the doorbell rings; Blaine is early. Kurt hears Finn answer the door with a cheerful, "Hey, dude."

Blaine replies, "Hi, Finn." Then he asks, "Is Kurt upstairs?"

Finn makes an affirmative noise, possibly around a mouthful of toast.

Blaine's footsteps are even and light upon the stairs. When they approach his door Kurt calls out, "It's open." Blaine nudges the door with his shoulder and enters carrying two Starbucks coffees. Predictably, Kurt's heart stoops and his stomach flips. "Hi," Kurt says, all breathy, high-pitched, and ridiculous.

Blaine uses his elbow to push the door closed. "Hey," Blaine says; his smile is warm, his cheeks pink, and his eyes too wide and bright as they take in Kurt's state of half dress. There's rain glittering in his hair and beading on the plastic lids of the coffee. "I brought coffee," he says in a rush, a little—adorably—breathless.

"I can see that," Kurt says, smiling and indulging his desire to look at Blaine. Today Blaine wears cuffed, dark wash jeans with a navy blue gingham shirt (Kurt lets this make his tie and shirt decision for him: he vetoes his gingham tie) with a red and blue repp tie (it's almost a cousin to the Dalton tie, but the red stripes are wider, there's a thin line of gold asymmetrically dividing the blue, and the silk is woven with the appropriate texture), and a navy cabled cricket sweater with red and white edging. Kurt suspects he's always going to have a certain visceral response to Blaine in combinations of red and navy. "You're early," he says, finding a bit more volume and control for his voice. "You look nice."

Blaine carefully sets their coffees down on Kurt's bookshelf, and lets his bag slip from his shoulder to the floor. There's heat in his gaze when he looks back up at Kurt. "So do you."

Kurt rolls his eyes and feels the answering heat of a blush across his cheeks. "I'm not finished yet." He turns to the bed to pick up the white shirt, but he is intercepted by Blaine's arms coming around him from behind.

"Wait," Blaine says urgently against the back of his neck.

Kurt waits and doesn't resist Blaine's embrace, but he does wonder. Mornings are usually just about getting ready and getting to school. This isn't what they do with their school day mornings. "Blaine, I know you're early, but I don't think we have time for—"

"Just let me hold you for a minute, please," Blaine says and his tone is hard to read.

"Okay," Kurt says, and he relaxes as Blaine's arms tighten around him and Blaine exhales warm soft breath against Kurt's neck.

"You smell really good," Blaine murmurs.

Kurt smiles, folds his arms over Blaine's, and squeezes. "Is this why you came early?" he asks.

There's a long pause before Blaine answers "Actually, no." He presses closer, and Kurt feels it against his backside, how hard Blaine is. "But now that I'm here— Can you turn around?"

Kurt turns in Blaine's arms and meets his kiss with a smile. He's careful not to muss up Blaine's hair, and Blaine takes similar care with Kurt, just lightly stroking the back and side of Kurt's neck with one hand while...

"Oh..." Kurt says, pulling back from Blaine's mouth when Blaine's other hand yanks his belt undone. "Blaine?"

"We have enough time for this," Blaine whispers, and then he drops to his knees.

There are worse reasons to be late for homeroom on a Monday.

~*~

It's third period when Kurt gets the first phone call from Karofsky, which makes Kurt's heart clench uncomfortably. It's easy to ignore while in class, but he doesn't return the call at lunch. Instead he deletes the voice-mail without listening to it and turns off his phone. He holds Blaine's hand under the table and thinks about the weekend as they eat their lunch with Tina, Mike, and Artie.

After Glee practice, Kurt slumps with rubbery legs and a sore ankle by Blaine's locker waiting for Blaine. Mr. Schue is pushing them hard for Regionals this weekend, and New Directions has a taste for blood going up against The Warblers. Blaine is working especially hard to make up for his weeks of absence; he's hung back with Mike to polish a couple moves. But it's not long before Kurt spots them coming around the corner, Blaine flushed with exertion, still smiling. Mike looks pleased too. Kurt can't wait to get Blaine home so they can pick up where they left off this morning. He gives them a wave and pushes himself up to stand straight.

"See you guys tomorrow," Mike says and carries on. Blaine unlocks his locker while his smile fades. He sends Kurt an abruptly nervous look.

"Hey, what's up?" Kurt asks, turning to face Blaine and leaning in closer, against the locker beside him.

"I need to talk to you about something, Kurt." He's not smiling.

Kurt frowns. He can't imagine what's wrong; it's been a pretty good day. "Sounds serious," Kurt says lightly, but he reaches out and rests a hand on Blaine's arm.

"Yeah," Blaine says.

"Um, okay. Tell me?"

Blaine sighs, his gaze flicking away from Kurt and off to the side. "I can't stay for dinner."

"That's not a big deal," Kurt says; he takes his hand back to himself to shift his bag strap upon his shoulder. "I wasn't planning anything fancy tonight, you know how Mondays go."

"No," Blaine says, dropping his chin to his chest. "I mean at all. I can't stay anymore. At least not on school nights."

Kurt's fingers freeze on his bag strap. "What?" Weeknights at home together are their time; it's a a routine Kurt missed while Blaine was injured. It's a routine he's been eager to return to: Blaine helping him with dinner—unless Carole was cooking, in which case they'd watch the news with his Dad—then there'd be dinner, doing the dishes, hanging out a bit with Finn and Sam or his parents until they'd go upstairs "to do homework" and make out until Blaine had to leave at eight-thirty.

Blaine lifts his head, and when he looks at Kurt, it's resigned. "I have to be home by six. I have a new curfew."

Kurt blinks. "Why?" he asks slowly.

"My Dad," Blaine says. "He thinks I'm...veering out of control or something. Getting myself into dangerous situations."

"And having dinner at my house is dangerous?" Kurt says, attempts a smile though he doesn't feel it.

Blaine doesn't smile. "He means the—"

"I know what he means," Kurt says softly, smile vanishing.

"He says I see you all day at school anyway, so I need to be home for dinner," Blaine explains reasonably, like he's trying to make his Dad's case.

Kurt's frown returns as a scowl. "But we don't see each other all day at school, Blaine. We've only got one class together. Other than that it's just lunch and Glee—"

"I know, Kurt. But I can't do anything about it."

"Did you try?" Kurt demands, and it comes out more harshly than he means it to.

Blaine's gaze snaps up with a quick flash of anger. "Of course I did. Even my Mom..." Blaine's posture stiffens, and he continues more calmly, "Believe it or not, this is the compromise. I can still stay for dinner on Fridays and Saturdays."

Kurt closes his eyes, doesn't ask if Blaine will still be able to sleep over; he doesn't want to know the answer just yet. "Okay, fine," he says. "What about me going over there on a weeknight. Is that allowed?"

"I— I guess, but it's... probably not a good idea. At least not for now."

"Blaine," Kurt says. He opens his eyes to see Blaine hugging himself like he's trying to disappear.

"I know this sucks. But my Dad," Blaine says. "He just needs some more time..."

"Three years hasn't been enough?"

"Kurt," Blaine says, his gaze distressed; his voice breaks. "I can't change him."

"Hey," Kurt says. He steps forward and wraps his arms around Blaine. Doesn't know what to say. He just doesn't know what Blaine's father is like, doesn't understand it at all. So he says that. "I don't get your Dad."

Blaine returns the hug. "I know, and I'm glad you don't. But, hey, he still travels a lot," Blaine says, though his optimism sounds forced. "So there's that anyway. And my Mom still likes you."

"Yeah," Kurt says. "We're going to need a schedule, huh?" Kurt tries again at levity. This time it works.

Blaine laughs briefly, sniffs, and squeezes Kurt until it hurts. "Yeah, probably."

"Are you okay?" Kurt asks with the little breath Blaine hasn't squeezed from him.

"I'm— It's nothing new," Blaine says, releasing Kurt. "I'm fine."

Kurt tries to smile more widely. "You'll still call me after dinner?" he asks.

Blaine nods. "Of course."

~

It's weird, Blaine dropping him off at the end of his driveway without even getting out of the car, but Blaine seems anxious to get home. Kurt stands at the edge of the street and watches, the light rain making his hair droop, until Blaine's car has turned the corner and disappeared from view. Then he goes inside.

~*~

Kurt's phone rings at eight PM sharp. "Hi," Kurt says, trying his best to sound upbeat, like nothing's wrong.

"Hey," Blaine replies.

"So, how's your evening been?" Kurt lies down on his bed, his head toward the foot of it, his feet propped up against his headboard.

"Fine, I guess. Kurt, I'm sorry."

"No, it's... well, it's not fine, but it's... it is what it is," Kurt says.

There's a long silence. It feels awkward. "Blaine?" Kurt prompts.

"Yes?"

"Are you okay?"

Kurt hears a sigh. "I just wish I were there."

"Me too."

Blaine doesn't say anything then. It seems they just listen to each other breathe for a time. The longer it goes on the more Kurt doesn't know what to say. He feels an inappropriate giggle threatening.

"Oh my god, Blaine," Kurt says finally. He starts to laugh, so he can let it out before it turns into a more humiliating a sound.

"What?" Blaine does not sound amused; he sounds tired.

"Is this what it's going to be like in the Autumn when I call you from New York?"

"Kurt, no—" Kurt hears Blaine sigh again. "I'm just— Maybe I should let you go."

"No, no," Kurt protests quickly. "Please, stay with me. I just... I wish I could do something to help."

"There's noth—"

Kurt's phone bleeps at him; he has another call. But he's lost Blaine before he can even see who it is: "You should answer that," Blaine says. "I'm not good company. I'll see you tomorrow, Kurt."

"Blaine—" Kurt says, but the line is already dead. The incoming call is David Karofsky. Kurt stabs the ignore button and tosses his phone at his pillows. "Fuck." he says to no one.

He glares at what remains of his Calculus homework. He can finish it in homeroom in the morning. He thinks about calling his Dad, but at this hour, he'll still be working—networking anyway, at a local bar. Carole is still at work, and Kurt has little interest in discussing any of this with Rachel or Mercedes. In fact, he doesn't really want to talk about it at all. Kurt gets off his bed and heads for his door. In the hallway he can hear the muffled sound of automatic gunfire coming from Finn's room, along with a loud whoop and a "Dude! Get him!" from Sam followed by Finn shouting, "Sam, your other left!" Kurt hesitates only a moment before heading down the hall and knocking on Finn's door.

He's welcomed with a "Hey, Kurt," and then Sam tosses him his game controller. "Your turn. This map's killing me. "

~*~

Tuesday morning Kurt meets Blaine at school. Apparently it's easier this way, and Kurt's not inclined to argue the point this morning with Blaine. So when Rachel asks Kurt if he'd like to get a coffee and look at Bridal magazines with her after Glee, Kurt says yes. He does invite Blaine to join them too. The Lima Bean is, after all, on the way to Blaine's home. Blaine declines, insists he needs to take what time he does have to get himself back in shape for the weekend competition. He's probably right, so Kurt smiles and squeezes his hand and says he'll call him tonight. He doesn't tell Blaine that David Karofsky has called him twice more today—or at all. Kurt doesn't tell anyone.

Kurt makes cheese enchiladas for dinner to make the most of his Dad not actually being there. They're really good, but he burns his fingertips rolling the hot tortillas. It's demoralizing that despite his efforts and injury, Finn and Sam scarf them down like takeouts. Kurt's missing Blaine and missing his Dad and missing Carole and starting to resent every little sound his phone makes. He's feeling like the worst stepbrother in the universe for not telling Finn about Sebastian's blackmail threat (that one is for Rachel to broach, and she wants to sleep on it). And not telling Blaine about either Karofsky or Sebastian has him feeling like the worst boyfriend in the universe.

Instead he babbles to Blaine about the New York apartments he's been looking at online and wondering how he'll afford one. And maybe, you know, he should stay in the dorm his first year—it looks like NYADA has decent dorms—to save money so he and Blaine can get a place together the following year. He'll probably end up with a terrible roommate though, someone who snores and leaves dirty laundry lying around and borrows his clothes. But Rachel and Finn, if they're married (still a terrible and tragic idea), will want a place of their own without Kurt. And Kurt is getting sick of the sound of his own voice and frustrated that even daydreams of the future aren't perking Blaine up from his funk.

"So what do you think I should sing for my audition?" Kurt asks him. Maybe a direct question will elicit more than quiet murmurs of agreement.

"I thought you'd already decided it was going to be 'The Music of the Night' or 'Defying Gravity'," Blaine says.

"Well, yeah," Kurt says, "But I want to keep an open mind. The perfect song might still be out there, waiting for me to find it."

Kurt can almost hear Blaine shrug.

So he says, just to be provocative, "What about 'Not the Boy Next Door'?"

"From The Boy From Oz?" Blaine asks. He sounds intrigued. It's progress.

"Yes," Kurt confirms. "The one Hugh Jackman—"

"I know the one, Kurt. Wow, yeah, you could totally pull that off," Blaine says with easy confidence in his voice; there's no trace of incredulity.

Kurt blinks. "I was kidding," Kurt says.

"Why? It's perfect for you."

Kurt closes his mouth.

"You don't think so?" Blaine asks.

"Don't you think it would be a little too—?"

"It would be amazing, Kurt," Blaine says. "Not to mention hot."

"Hot. Seriously?" Kurt asks.

"Yes."

"Me in those pants? Dancing like... that?"

"Like I said, hot."

"But—"

"I saw you do 'Single Ladies' at Rachel's party, Kurt. You can't pretend like you don't know how to portray sex appeal anymore."

"Well, of course you think that. You're biased, Blaine."

"I may be, but that doesn't make me wrong."

"Huh," Kurt says.

"You should think about it, Kurt," Blaine says.

Kurt adds it to his list. Tentatively.

~*~

The song Blaine sings for Kurt Wednesday is beautiful. His voice is stunning and raw—the best it's ever been, Kurt thinks. He blinks back a few tears. But it's not inspirational, not in the way Kurt understands the word. Cathartic maybe.

"What do you think?" Blaine asks earnestly and with that approval seeking look Kurt is learning to both love and hate.

"Incredible," Kurt says honestly. He stands and approaches Blaine, steps into the light so Blaine can see how moved Kurt has been. "That inspires you, Blaine?" Kurt wonders what it inspires. It makes him want to cry.

"I—" Blaine rubs the back of his neck and tilts his head, uncertain. "You don't think it's right?"

"It's," Kurt starts gently. "I think it's beautiful, but it's sort of... sad, don't you think?"

"Inspiration can be sad," Blaine says.

Kurt isn't sure he understands.

"Melancholy, you know, the song's about hope and patience when things aren't going so well."

"Okay," Kurt says. "Melancholy is inspiring?"

"Um, yeah, like... Okay, I know you like Keats' poetry," Blaine explains. "That's melancholy and inspirational, right? When you realize that all of this," Blaine gestures around himself. "It's all transitory, it makes it more precious. Makes you appreciate what you've got right in front of you." He smiles at Kurt and reaches out a hand, which Kurt takes. Lets Blaine pull him in closer.

"Look," Blaine says. "I know I've been kind of moody this week," he says.

"Kind of?" Kurt says with a wry grin.

Blaine laughs softly, bows his head for a moment before he looks back up at Kurt, vulnerable. "It's just—so many things, Kurt. Dalton didn't do anything, because of who Sebastian's father is. And my father doesn't want to press charges—"

"I didn't think you wanted to either?" Kurt says.

"No, I don't, not really," Blaine says, "But I wanted him to at least want to. I wanted to have to talk him down from it, but it's all politics to him, and as far as I'm concerned..." Blaine trails off, bitterness twisting his mouth.

"What?"

"He acts like it's my fault, like he's blaming me for what happened. It's like he thinks I brought it on myself."

"What about your Mom?" Kurt asks. Surely she's an ally in this. Surely she's explained to Mr. Anderson what happened.

Blaine just shrugs. "Anyway," Blaine says, "I don't want to dwell on that stuff, the things I can't change. I want to work hard and win this thing on Saturday."

"Me too," Kurt says, and steals a glance at Blaine's watch. "You know, we have time to do something, if you want. Get a coffee? I'll buy you one of the gingerbread men. They've started icing them with bowties, you know. I think they miss you."

"Ugh," Blaine says. "I can't handle The Lima Bean just yet. If I even see Sebastian there..."

"Okay," Kurt says, "That's fine." He thinks about what Blaine has said about his song and poetry and melancholy and inspiration. He has an idea. "I know where we can go."

~*~

It's sunny and clear outside, and though the sun is low in the winter sky, the day feels freshly washed and bright after the rain. Kurt pulls out his sunglasses. "You can ride with me," he says to Blaine as they cross the parking lot. "It's not far."

It's a six minute drive to the cemetery where his mother is buried. The silence in the car grows denser somehow as Kurt pulls in to park. "I usually visit in March," Kurt says. "I bring daffodils."

From the passenger seat, Blaine is looking at him with so much sympathy, Kurt's worried Blaine might cry.

"It's okay," Kurt reassures. "This isn't..." He tries to find the right words. It isn't not sad, but it's not an open wound either. It hurts—god, it will never not hurt—but it's part of him now. Familiar. He knows this particular pain well enough; it doesn't cripple him. Not if he's careful with it, anyway, and he knows how to be careful. "I just wanted to bring you here, after what you said about transitory things and valuing what we have," Kurt says. "It made me realize I never have brought you here."

"Okay," Blaine says, and they get out of the car.

Kurt offers Blaine his hand and they walk, hand in hand, between the lines of tombstones, over the damp winter-brown grass, until they get to Kurt's mother's headstone. Kurt looks at the ground, notes the tiny bright green spikes of new growth peeking between the dead blades of last Summer.

They stand quietly for a time. Blaine keeps his grip firm on Kurt's hand. Kurt pushes his sunglasses up into his hair, and squints at Blaine. "She would have liked you a lot," Kurt says. "I'm certain of it."

Blaine smiles back, squeezes Kurt's hand. "So are you introducing me to her now, or...?"

"Well, I figured it was well past time I introduced her to the boy who took my virtue," Kurt says facetiously. Then more seriously, he says, "No, not really. I mean, you know I don't believe in that stuff, souls or an afterlife. I don't think she's looking down on us and seeing you or hearing me or anything."

"Then what do you do here?"

Kurt shrugs. "I remember her. I remember my Dad with her, and I try to be grateful for the good memories. Grateful she chose my Dad, and grateful he chose her. Sometimes I try to imagine her, what she would say to me if she were still alive. It's comforting sometimes to pretend I can talk to her, even though I know it's just a fantasy."

Blaine nods. "So what was she like?"

The memories aren't that hard to summon, standing here. "She laughed a lot—we did—all three of us. There was a lot of laughter when I was young. She was playful. She liked music, and she sang. Not professionally or like we do, just around the house, you know? And she had a garden every spring. She'd always plant peas. I remember the peas most of all because she'd let me eat them straight out of the pods still hanging on the plants. My Dad complained he never got any.

"She bought me my first tea set, and she taught me how to make little cakes and petit fours out of Play-Doh and clay. She made the best waffles and pancakes and French toast..." Kurt trails off with a smile. "My Dad always tells me I'm a lot like her."

"So she was beautiful," Blaine says, and it's a cheesy line, but Blaine says it with such sincerity and brightness in his eyes, Kurt can't be anything but warmed by it.

"She was," Kurt says. "Remind me to get out the photo albums Friday. You're still coming over Friday, right?"

"Yes," Blaine says, "and I will."

~*~

It's in French class Thursday that Kurt hears the news about David Karofsky. Both Mr. Schuester and Miss Pillsbury come. They look at him first as they stand in the door, and Kurt's heart quails; he goes cold to his toes. But they don't beckon him to come with them, instead they speak quietly to his teacher and then they come in. Miss Pillsbury tells the class what's happened, explains she'll be in her office all day, and she'll be staying after school if anyone needs to talk. Or they can make an appointment. She says a lot of other things too, but Kurt doesn't hear them. His numb fingers blindly reach into his jacket pocket for his phone; his fingertips are clumsy on the slick glass front of it. He stares at the faux wood grain of his desk and doesn't blink until he hears Mr. Schuester saying his name. "Kurt? Do you need a minute?"

Kurt looks up, realizes everyone is now staring at him. Of course they are. "No, Mr. Schue," Kurt makes himself say with a confidence he in no way feels. "I'm fine." He reaches for his pencil, turns to the next page in his text book and makes his gaze track over the excerpt from Les Miserables.

~

Blaine is waiting at Kurt's locker between classes looking like the most beautiful thing in the whole of existence to Kurt right then. He doesn't check his urge to touch Blaine, just reaches for him and hugs him tightly. "Are you okay?" Blaine asks him.

"Mmm," is all Kurt can manage. He can't talk, can't tell Blaine. He's so ashamed. He pinches his eyes shut and holds on to Blaine. He knows Blaine will forgive him if he tells him, but he's not sure he deserves that.

Blaine would have answered David's calls. Would've texted David the courage to face the bullies. Would have known that David was in danger. Would have been there for him, because Blaine is a thoughtful, kind, and compassionate person. Kurt should have known. It was so obvious at Breadstix that night, that Nick was going to be a problem. So maybe Kurt did know, and he chose to ignore it, chose to ignore the phone calls because he—

He what? He couldn't stand the thought of David's crush on him, of accidentally leading him on, of making him think Kurt could possibly like him? But hadn't Kurt said "friends" to David?

Kurt sniffs back his tears and lets go of Blaine. "Thank you," he whispers.

"Sure," Blaine says tenderly with a tremor in his smile. He reaches up to straighten Kurt's lapel. "Do you want to go to the hospital after school?"

Kurt shakes his head. He's not ready for that. "Not yet," he says.

Blaine walks Kurt to his next class, his hand gentle at Kurt's elbow. "Blaine," Kurt says as they prepare to part at the classroom door.

"Yes?"

"You're a really good person. I hope you know that."

"Kurt?"

The bell rings.

"I'll see you later, okay?" Kurt says and heads inside.

~

The guilt and shame is a terrible ache in his heart for the rest of the day, and Kurt doesn't know what to do with it until he sees Joe in the courtyard hugging Santana. He approaches Joe cautiously after Santana has gone. Asks him if he can go to their emergency God Squad meeting this afternoon since Mr. Schue has canceled Glee practice. One thing Kurt knows about Christians is that they understand guilt and sin. Joe says, "Of course," and pats him on the shoulder. It may be the first time they've talked.

~

He's sitting on the desk in the Spanish room staring at his shoes as Quinn, who is still angry at him, tells him again that Karofsky—and only Karofsky—is responsible for what he did. That Kurt—of all people—is feeling guilt proves how selfish and cruel a thing suicide is. There's a reason it's a mortal sin. Kurt wants to tell her again that it's not that black and white, not that simple. People aren't islands. She's never been that alone, felt that completely despised. She's never had everyone turn their back on her and tell her she's better off dead. Kurt's never even been that abandoned, but he's had enough of a glimpse...

Mercedes is saying more softly and gently, "She's right, Kurt. It's not your fault. Despair isn't something you could have saved him from."

But he knows she's wrong, because he knows how Blaine saved him. All he had to do was answer the damned phone, invite David to have coffee. If people don't try to save each other when we can't save ourselves, then who does? She'd probably say God, but Kurt knows that's just a comforting lie. And that conversation isn't why he's here.

Then there's the sound of footsteps. Kurt looks up to see Blaine with Santana and Brittany in the open doorway. "Kurt?" Blaine says.

Kurt wipes his cheek with the cuff of his shirt, "Yes?"

"I... I got a call from Sebastian," Blaine says. "He says he wants to talk. About a truce, and... about doing something for Karofsky. I—" Blaine glances at Santana. She's wearing her most fierce skeptical bitch face. "I don't want to go alone," Blaine says.

Blaine answered Sebastian's call; Kurt will go with him. "Count me in," he says.

~*~

When Kurt gets home from The Lima Bean, his Dad's car is in the driveway. The familiar sight of it brings the weight of the day down upon Kurt. All the things he's been trying to keep aloft to get through it, they fall upon him like stones. His feet are heavy as he trudges upstairs.

"Dad?" Kurt asks from the doorway. He tries to make his voice sound normal, but it comes out sort of watery and weak. His Dad will know something is wrong immediately, but Kurt wanted to be able to tell him with words, not with his inability to control his own voice. He's a singer, for goodness sake. His Dad looks up from the open suitcase on the bed. He's only just home, Kurt realizes, and unpacking from his latest trip to and from D.C. But he's been back long enough to have changed out of his suit. The constant back and forth is still settling into routine for the household. Kurt has to look at the calendar on the fridge to remember when his Dad is going, when he's coming home. It's Thursday; his Dad is home until Sunday afternoon, and then he won't be back again until the following Saturday morning.

"Hey..." his Dad says, and drops the carefully rolled up tie in his hand. It unspools as it falls onto the bed, draping like a dog's tongue over a pile of t-shirts. It's the silver-blue pin dot tie Kurt gave him the day after the election. A power tie for the twenty-first century, Kurt had called it.

Kurt tries to blink and sniff back his tears. He's not quite crying, but there's only a fragile, tissue thin piece of will keeping him from it. "Hi."

"What is it, Kurt?"

Kurt puts a hand on the doorjamb, tries to dig his fingernails into the slick enamel paint on the trim, but it doesn't give way. "Um," Kurt says. "You remember that boy? David Karofsky?"

A flash of paternal protection hardens his Dad's eyes and his voice. "What's happened? What's he done? Has he hurt you? Or Blaine?"

"No, Dad. He's—" Kurt swallows, but his throat still feels too tight for air. "He's in hospital. He tried to—" Kurt breaks off with a sob, sways against the door frame as his knees go numb. His temple hits the hard edge of the wood trim, and Kurt closes his eyes.

Then his Dad's hands are on his shoulders; his Dad's voice is close and suddenly soft, cracking with worry. "Kurt, buddy—"

"He tried to kill himself," Kurt whispers. The tears are welling up in his eyes now, making his vision swim and his eyelashes tangle and clump as he tries to open his eyes. It feels like there's a steel box around his heart, and it's far too small. His chest hurts. He can barely expand his lungs for enough air. His breaths are jagged, useless spasms.

"Hey, hey, hey..." his Dad is murmuring, carefully wrapping a strong arm around Kurt's shoulders and supporting him as he leads him away from the door. Kurt opens his eyes enough to make sure he doesn't stumble. "Sit down," his Dad says gently, and they sit on the padded bench at the end of the bed. He rubs Kurt's back. "Breathe, kiddo," he says.

Kurt hiccups out a "can't," and then he starts to cry. He cries like he hasn't cried with his Dad in nearly ten years.

"Oh, buddy, hey," his Dad says, bewildered, but his arms come around Kurt and pull him against his chest. He rocks Kurt, shushes him, tells him it's okay, it's okay, it's okay. There's no way his Dad knows, no way he understands what's happened, but he's holding onto Kurt exactly as if he does.

There's less of his Dad and more of Kurt than there was the last time his Dad held him like this. It's still familiar though. Kurt clings to that solid comfort, curls his fingers into the feather soft flannel of his Dad's shirt until it feels like his fingerbones will snap. It's the smell of him—English Leather and motor oil—and the arms that could once hold all of Kurt, the hands that haven't wiped away his tears for years now but always did so gently. And there's the slightly out of cadence heartbeat beneath his cheek that Kurt desperately hopes never ever falters again. And Kurt cries.