The Lima Bean doesn't feel like the haven it once did. On the surface nothing has changed. It looks the same as always: the same chairs, tables, counters, menu board, and logo merchandise. It smells the same, the bitter warmth of fresh coffee and the sweet yeasty scent of baking pastries. The murmur of conversation, the hiss of the espresso machine, the clank of metal are all familiar sounds, homelike even. The angle of the sun through the broad windows on a March afternoon is as it was last year, carving steep sloped shadows across the tabletops and floors. But it's not quite the safe space it has been, where he and Blaine became friends, where Kurt confessed his affection and Blaine showed him his fearful heart, where they had their first fight. Where they first said, "I love you".

A glance around shows no Sebastian Smythe present. There are a few Dalton blazers, but they belong to no one Kurt recognizes. Kurt tightens one hand on his bag strap and takes a breath. He spots David Karofsky sitting by the window, staring out at the parking lot with his hands wrapped around the base of a tall cup. Beside Kurt, Blaine is tense. Kurt's other hand is on Blaine's back, rubbing between his shoulder blades. "Are you sure I should be here too?" Blaine asks him quietly.

"Yes," Kurt says. They have talked about this, why Kurt wants Blaine with him this afternoon, meeting David for the first time since he's got out of hospital. Partly it's selfishness on Kurt's part. Blaine's presence keeps him steady within himself. And Kurt wants to make sure David understands that he is, absolutely, with Blaine. Not to gloat or provoke jealousy, just so that it is clear enough to forestall any future misunderstandings. He thinks it may also be good, if David can accept Blaine, to see that it's possible to find love, even in Ohio. Kurt remembers when love for himself, this sort of love, seemed like something he could never attain. Like he'd been cursed with a desire that was little more than a longing to torture his heart.

"I'll go order the coffee," Blaine says.

"Okay," Kurt says, giving Blaine's back a parting pat and then heading over to David's table. David glances up as Kurt approaches, and Kurt gives him a little wave and a tight smile. "Hey," Kurt says. He doesn't pull out a chair immediately. Isn't sure where to sit. If he sits next to David, that seems too intimate, possibly even too threatening to David. But if he sits opposite then Blaine will be sitting next to David.

"Hi," David says, straightening up and leaning back in his chair, pulling his cup toward him, as if making room for Kurt. Kurt suspects his presence may still take up too much space in David's world, particularly in public. Sitting down shouldn't be so fraught. Kurt ends up dragging the chair opposite David closer the the window as he pulls it out to seat himself. The chair beside David, he pulls toward himself as he sits, ostensibly to put his bag on it, reserving it for Blaine. Now Kurt worries this may seem adversarial, the both of them facing David, but Kurt doesn't want anyone to feel crowded.

"So, how are you?" Kurt asks. His voice has gone thin with nerves. He smiles through them, tries to be reassuring.

Despite the trite opener, Kurt knows it's an overladen question; he doesn't miss how David flinches. "You don't have to be fine," Kurt adds. "I meant it when I said some days are going to suck."

That makes David smile. "I'm... okay, I guess."

Kurt keeps smiling. "Okay is good. I'm often grateful for okay," he says.

David glances away, lowers his voice. "Look, Kurt," he says. "I know it's probably what you want to talk to me about, but can we not talk about the, you know, the gay stuff today? It's all anyone wants to talk to me about right now, and I just—"

"Okay," Kurt says. "Of course." He understands. "You're not a box."

David gives him a quizzical look, and it makes Kurt wonder what it is David sees when he looks at Kurt now. Does he still see Fancy sprinkling his fairy dust, threatening David's careful attempts at 'normal'. Or does he just see someone brave? Or someone to envy or something pretty or...? Kurt doesn't want to think about it too much. He can't think about it if he wants to give this friendship a chance. Kurt shakes his head and says, "Never mind. We can talk about anything you want."

"Hey," Blaine says; he sets Kurt's mocha down in front of him along with a plate upon which is one of the large bowtie wearing gingerbread men. 'Kurt' is scrawled over the side in of his cup in the afternoon barista's familiar handwriting. Kurt smiles up at Blaine and moves his bag so Blaine can sit. "Thank you, honey," he says.

"I thought we could share," Blaine says to Kurt, and then to David he says, "It's good to see you, David."

"Hi... Blaine," David says, looking at Blaine warily as Blaine sits down, scooting his chair a few inches closer to Kurt. It's the first time Kurt has heard David say Blaine's name.

Kurt sips his coffee, which is borderline too hot; David looks at his hands, and Blaine breaks a leg off the gingerbread man.

"So," David says eventually. "I heard you guys won your choir thing."

"Yes," Kurt says, "We'll be heading to Chicago for Nationals." It's becoming less surreal to say it out loud. "I think we have a good chance at it this year."

"Congratulations," David says.

"Thanks," Blaine says.

They fall into silence again.

"How's the college hunt going?" Kurt asks. Perhaps encouraging David to thoughts of the future again will make this easier.

"Okay. I've applied mostly in state, so I'll probably end up at OSU."

Kurt nods.

"What about you guys?" David asks.

"Oh, I'm not graduating this year," Blaine says. "Next year. I'll be looking at schools in New York."

"I got an audition with NYADA," Kurt says. "It's my dream school. Their musical theater program is the best in the country." Kurt reaches for the cookie. He can't bear to behead the little guy, so he takes his other leg. "I cannot wait to get to New York,"

"Cool," David says, and he takes a long pull from his coffee.

Blaine glances at Kurt, and Kurt reaches for his leg under the table, gives it a squeeze.

"So, um," Kurt says, and can't think of what else to say. Has the awful suspicion that most of what he typically talks about with his friends would seem like 'gay stuff' to David. Fortunately, he was smart enough to bring Blaine.

"I'm really looking forward to watching the Buckeyes this coming season. I think they'll do well with the new coach," Blaine says.

"Yeah," David says, perking up. "With Meyer, they've got a shot at the top ten again."

Blaine replies with something about football Kurt doesn't follow, but Kurt is smiling when he reaches into his pocket for his phone to check his text messages.

~*~

Blaine leaves Glee rehearsal early on Wednesday when his phone rings, and he doesn't come back. Kurt expects to find him in the auditorium when Kurt goes to practice "Music of The Night", but Blaine is not there. On the empty stage, Kurt sets up his portable stereo and runs through the song to an empty audience. By the time he's holding the final note, Blaine still hasn't shown. Concerned, Kurt gets his phone from his bag and sends a text to query Blaine's whereabouts, but he doesn't get a reply.

Concern turns to worry knotting in his chest. It's not wholly rational, Kurt knows. He doesn't want to assume something dire. Blaine must still be on the phone, somewhere. He wouldn't have left without saying goodbye. Kurt leaves the auditorium and wanders the halls, listening for Blaine's voice, peeking into open classrooms, the darkened library, the cafeteria. He ends up back in the choir room. Nothing.

A look outside shows Blaine's car is still in the parking lot. There's one place left to look, and, as Kurt thinks about it with a wrinkle of his nose. Really, it's the first place he should have checked.

Kurt goes to the boys' gym, and there he finds Blaine.

He hears him before he sees him: the staccato thump thump of Blaine's fists against the heavy bag. It's not a place Kurt likes to intrude. Blaine's boxing is something separate from Kurt. Something personal and private Kurt doesn't really understand. It unnerves him: the intensity, the barely restrained violence of it. Not to mention, it looks uncomfortable.

Kurt knocks on the concrete wall to announce his arrival, but the sound doesn't carry. "Hi," he calls out as he comes in.

"Hi," Blaine says, the word clipped short by his breathlessness. The pounding of his fists speeds, the bag shuddering with the rapid fire rhythm. It's strange to Kurt that Blaine looks so small like this, dwarfed by the bag, stripped down to sweat, skin, and his undershirt. The ferocious punches he throws at the bag—as if he's truly got a vendetta against the thing—reverberate through his body. Kurt can see how each impact ripples up into Blaine's arms into his shoulders, how his torso and legs tighten and sway to absorb each shock. All Kurt can see is the oxymoronic fragility of human strength. That Blaine, wonderful amazing infinite Blaine, is somehow bound in nothing more formidable than muscle and bone, in a body that looks like it could shatter if he punched just a little harder.

And he's going at it hard, harder than Kurt has seen him. His hair's come loose, hanging in sweaty ringlets about his face, perspiration streaks his arms and soaks his shirt down to his belly. His gaze is concentrated and clear: all hawk sharp and cold focus on the landing of each blow. But Kurt thinks he understands movement, and Blaine's form—though Kurt would never claim expertise when it comes to punching things—seems off, a little out of kilter, like Blaine is using too much speed and too much force to control it as well as maybe he should. Something's wrong. Perhaps something with the phone call.

"I missed you in the auditorium," Kurt says, he comes in and sits on a weight bench, knees together, bag in his lap.

"Yeah," Blaine says, doesn't look at Kurt, doesn't even glance. Just keeps hammering away at the dumb bag. Kurt wonders who it is today Blaine may be imagining.

"What's going on?" he asks.

Blaine hesitates, lands one softer punch, then his face hardens and he slams one last, hardest punch before settling his weight back into his heels and dropping his head, one fist still braced against the bag, the other hanging limp at his side. His chest heaves, and Blaine speaks around his heavy breaths. "My parents aren't going to D.C., and I can't come over this weekend."

"What?" Kurt sits up even straighter. "I mean, why?"

Bitterly, Blaine says, "Plans have already been made for me."

"What plans?"

"Thad and his father are flying—which is to say Thad's father is doing the flying, he has his own plane—they're flying up to Princeton to look at apartments or dorms or something. We've been invited to join them. My Dad accepted the invitation. He thinks I need inspiration to get started working on my college applications for next year. Thinks I should start reconnecting with my friends at Dalton.

"Hell, he even thinks I should reconsider returning to Dalton for my senior year. As if I could even..." Blaine trails off, turns back to the bag and throws himself into a flurry of furious beats.

"Blaine," Kurt says. He sets his satchel aside and stands up, take a few tentative steps toward Blaine, who doesn't relent in his attack on the bag, doesn't register Kurt coming closer. It looks like too much to Kurt. He doesn't know, can't know, really; but he thinks he sees more than emotional pain registering in the tension of Blaine's jaw. "Blaine," he says more loudly, "Please, can you... stop for a minute?"

He reaches out, lays his fingertips lightly upon Blaine's bare shoulder. His skin is hot and slick, like it gets when they have sex, but Kurt is finding nothing erotic here. He's alarmed. Blaine's next punch vibrates viciously beneath Kurt's fingers. "Honey, please," he says.

Blaine makes some vague noise of assent and stops, tipping forward toward the bag, resting his forehead against it, eyes closed. He slumps, wraps his arms around its barely yielding girth. "I'm sorry," he mumbles. "I know how much this weekend means to you." Then more softly, with his voice sounding thicker and exhausted: defeated. "It means a lot to me."

"I'm sorry too," Kurt says, sliding the rest of his hand onto Blaine's skin, squeezing. He fumbles for words to comfort or explain or encourage, but all he comes up with is, "It's okay, Blaine."

"It's not okay," Blaine says, and his voice drops to a whisper. Kurt barely makes out the words when Blaine continues, "God, Kurt, sometimes I think I hate him. I fucking hate him."

Awkwardly, Kurt asks, "What can I do? Is there anything?"

Blaine shakes his head against the heavy bag, doesn't open his eyes. "There's nothing. He just, he doesn't listen, he never listens to me. I feel like I'm just a... a prop in his life. The wrong one."

Then Blaine takes a deep breath, opens his eyes, and straightens. He tuns and looks at Kurt, his eyes weary, his shoulders rounded. "I really am sorry, Kurt. I wanted so much to spend the weekend together."

"Me too," Kurt says, and he forces himself to smile. "Maybe next weekend?"

Blaine nods. "Yeah, he's definitely traveling next week, so next weekend may actually be possible. I'll double check the dates and let you know so you can update our schedule."

Kurt takes Blaine by the arm and leads him over the bench to sit. He feels the tremors of fatigue in the muscles beneath his loose grip. They sit, and Kurt reaches for Blaine's nearest hand, gently starts unwrapping it. Blaine winces as his hand comes free, gingerly uncurls his fingers into Kurt's grasp. Kurt rubs Blaine's palm with his thumb, working his way with mild pressure up toward and along each finger. "Can you come over Friday at least?" he asks quietly.

Blaine shakes his head. "No. My parents are having a dinner party and I am expected to attend."

"That sucks," Kurt says, reaches for Blaine's other hand.

"Yeah."

"Come here," Kurt says. He pulls Blaine against him, heedless of the sweat and smell getting on his clothes. They'll wash, but Blaine... Blaine comes easily to him, limp and exhausted as Kurt frees his other hand. "It's going to be okay," he says with a confidence he's not certain he feels. They just have to endure a little more, always a little more, but there's an end in sight. It has to give way to their future. "This time next year," Kurt says, "You'll be graduating soon, and I'll be waiting for you in New York, probably busy with last minute decorating to make sure everything will be perfect for you." Kurt smiles as he imagines it. "I'll come back to Ohio to watch you graduate, and then we'll leave this place together, and I'll take you home with me. To our home."

Blaine is quiet for a long time. "A year is a long time, Kurt. To wait."

With a shrug Kurt replies, "It's not so long when you've been waiting as long as we have. And anyway, for you, I'd wait forever."

Blaine chuckles against Kurt's shoulder.

Kurt rolls his eyes. "I know, it's cheesy and sentimental," he says with a soft answering laugh. "But it's true, Blaine. We'll get through this."

"I hope so," Blaine says, pulling away from Kurt to stand. "Will you sing for me this afternoon after I shower?"

Kurt smiles and says, "Of course."

~*~

Even though his weekend plans have fallen to ruin, Kurt doesn't want Carole to cancel her plans with his Dad, and he doesn't want either of them to be worrying about him while they're gone. He calls Mercedes when he gets home Wednesday, asks if she'd like to make the gardening project a Saturday thing instead and stay the night. He'll invite Rachel, too. They can work on the garden all morning and afternoon, and then make pizza and marathon the last season's Project Runway. She says yes. So does Rachel (though only to the evening's activities). Kurt is confident he can keep himself distracted with the garden and his best girls. Mercedes wants to visit Quinn Sunday after she goes to church, anyway. Quinn's been moved out of ICU to the rehab floor.

Thursday, Kurt blows off his audition practice and takes Blaine with him to the cemetery to lay a bunch of daffodils with his mother. Then they go for ice cream to celebrate the warming days. After, they go their separate ways with a "See you Monday," and a "Have a safe trip," and a "Good luck with the garden." It does, for a moment, give Kurt pause to consider just how hard next year will be apart. This weekend is going to be difficult without Blaine, and the past few weeks have been dismal for his absence in the evenings. But Kurt reminds himself of what Blaine told him back in November. Being geographically apart doesn't mean they can't spend time together in other ways. He sends Blaine a text suggesting they try Skyping tonight instead of just a phone call. They can watch a movie together. It'll be like practicing for next year. Once Blaine's home, he replies with a brief, "sure," and Kurt suggests eight thirty.

There's no family dinner Friday. Carole is in D.C. with his Dad, Finn is out with Rachel, Blaine is with his parents and their friends, and Sam has gone over to Artie's for an evening of playing some (Kurt has learned the right acronym for it) MMORPG. Kurt sits alone at the dining table with some reheated leftovers, his computer, a pencil, and graph paper. He plans the beds for tomorrow, makes a list of what they'll need to get at the nursery, then he goes to the kitchen and makes soup for tomorrow's lunch. While he cooks, he replies to Blaine's occasional texts complaining of boredom.

~*~

Kurt picks Mercedes up at eight the next morning, which is far too early to be up and out on a Saturday, but they want to get started as soon as possible. Blaine's seven AM text to say he was on his way to the local airstrip had already woken Kurt, anyway. He hopes Thad's father is a good pilot. Kurt dons his oldest pair of jeans, a t-shirt, one of his Dad's flannel shirts, and an old fleece hoodie Finn was tossing out. He hopes it'll pass for Saturday morning I'm-planting-a-garden-today chic.

The morning is crisp and dewy, and Kurt is pleased to see hellebores, crocuses, and snow drops blooming down the side path to the backyard as he and Mercedes ferry supplies from the car to the backyard. The buds on the ornamental plum in the front yard are burgeoning; a few brave blossoms have already unfurled near the sheltered crooks of the branches

Mercedes' Mom has given him enough of her spare concrete blocks for two three-by-six raised beds. They've bought a lot of vegetable plants: spinach, arugula, peas, haricots verts, radishes, and carrots. Mercedes says they all grow well together and it's a good mix for the early spring. They can swap in tomatoes and basil, peppers and eggplant as it warms up. They also get some strawberries on a whim, and Mercedes insists on buying him marigolds and lavender to help keep pests away. She also gets him a floppy, wide-brimmed sun hat and some colorful daisy-print gloves to match. She calls them a garden warming gift. The gloves and hat really complete his ensemble, Kurt jokes. He poses with a sack of mulch for Mercedes to take a photograph with her phone. He asks her to send it to both Blaine and his Dad.

Then they set to the hard part. Kurt borrows his Dad's tape measure so they can mark out the beds with string, and Mercedes shows him how to cut the lawn off with a spade before they start digging the first bed. It takes longer than it had in Kurt's imaginings of the day, and it's not long before he's stripping off layers of clothing—first the hoody, then the flannel shirt—and sweating with exertion even in the cool morning air. There's no breeze, and the direct sun is warm. His arms, back, and shoulders burn comfortably with the movement. It feels good, like he's working out the kinks of schooldays and study.

Mercedes works faster than he does, being more practiced, and Kurt is distracted every time his shovel hits something that clinks. Usually it's a stone, but he starts to find small shards of pottery. Some old blue and white floral patterned thing, as far as he can tell. Each piece he bends to collect and wipe away the dirt from the glazed surface. Once he has six, he puts them aside together, thinks maybe he'll find enough to work out what it was that someone broke here before the grass grew over it.

"I found one, Kurt," Mercedes says and tosses a piece toward him.

Kurt catches it in both hands and makes a little "Oo!" of excitement.

"It's like amateur archaeology hour with you," she teases.

"You never know," Kurt says with a grin. "Maybe we've made a find of significance, and we'll end up on The Discovery Channel." He wipes away the soil and finds a different pattern. Not entirely different; it's clear it's from the same plate or bowl (he's leaning toward serving bowl given the curve of one of the shards), but instead of flowers it's the crested head of a bird. He puts it with the other pieces, and keeps digging.

They fall into an easy rhythm and find more bits of the blue and white bowl (including part of a flame feathered wing and a long peacock-ish tail) and Kurt's mind wanders. Not far, but back to his conversation with Sam. It has been, intermittently, on his mind, that Mercedes harbored more than a simple, short-lived crush on him. The morning with Mercedes has felt easy, so he thinks he might be able to ask her something, something he's always wondered, but has never quite been brave enough to ask her.

"Hey," he starts, pausing in the digging to rest his back. He straightens his shovel and leans against the handle. Waits for Mercedes to look up at him. "Can I ask you something?"

She, too, pauses in her work. "Yeah?"

"It's sort of personal, but I'd really appreciate an honest answer."

Mercedes frowns at him warily. "Well, you can ask," she says.

"Back when," Kurt starts, purses his lips for a moment to gather the words properly. "Back when you thought we were dating our sophomore year—"

Mercedes groans. "Kurt, oh my God, why are you bringing this up? It's so emb—"

"No, no, that's not it. It's fine. I just, I wanted to know if you had actually thought I was straight. Back then."

She looks at him, wariness transformed to curiosity.

"I mean, everyone thinks it's so obvious that I'm not, but you...?"

She's quiet for a few heartbeats, thoughtful. "Honestly, Kurt? At first I thought maybe you were gay, because that's what everyone said about you. But then as we spent time together, I just wasn't sure. So I figured it really wasn't my place to assume that just because you dressed well and whatever, that you weren't straight." Mercedes shrugs. "And you seemed to genuinely like me."

"I did like you. I do. Just..."

Mercedes smiles. "I know." She pokes at a large dirt clod with the end of her shovel, breaking it apart. "I think I really liked that you liked me. You were one of the first boys who did, who liked me as a person, you know?"

Kurt nods. Yeah, that he understands.

"You were so sweet to me, Kurt, and we had so much fun together. And you were a perfect gentleman. You never once tried to 'accidentally' grope my boobs."

Kurt smiles wider at that. "The thought never even occurred to me."

"You were pretty cute, too," Mercedes says.

"Cute," Kurt repeats skeptically. It sounds so bland and innocuous, the way she says it, like he's a fluffy bunny, still stuck with all the sex appeal of a baby penguin.

"Yeah, sure, you were a total cutie," she says, gives him a measuring look. "You still are, boo."

Kurt makes a face, says sarcastically, "Of course I've always aspired to cuteness."

"Hey," she says, flipping up another dirt clod with the end of her shovel and flinging it at his leg. "That was supposed to be a compliment."

Kurt grimaces and shakes his head.

"I didn't mean it like... however you're taking it. What's the problem, Kurt?"

"It's... probably a sore spot for you too."

"What is?"

"Okay, well, remember the auditions for West Side Story?"

"Do I ever." Mercedes makes a displeased face of her own. "But I'm over it."

"I'm not," Kurt says. Realizes he hasn't really talked about this with anyone other than the brief talk with his Dad.

"You auditioned for Tony, right?" she asks.

"Yeah, well, I overheard the casting conversation after my audition." Kurt stops for a moment, decides to confess his part in it. "And really, it's my own fault for eavesdropping, because you're never going to hear anything good, but..." He sighs.

"What did they say, Kurt?"

"Basically, I'm too delicate, and I lack sex appeal. I could never be a credible romantic lead. There was something about my toothpick arms and a failure to excite lady parts."

Kurt sees Mercedes' gaze go to his arms as bared by the t-shirt he's wearing, the sleeves are snug. Then she looks back at his face, "Seriously?"

"Yes."

"Well, they are blind, Kurt. And ignorant."

"You think?"

"Boy, I don't think, I know. Have you even looked at your fine self in a mirror lately?"

"I would, but..." Kurt gestures at his current state of dress. Mercedes bends to pick up another dirt clod, gives an exasperated sigh, and belts him with it in the side of his neck. It stings but doesn't do any damage. It breaks apart, and the dirt rains down the neck of his shirt. "Hey," he says. He strips off his gloves and bends to grab a choice clod of his own. He hits her in the shoulder with it, and she starts laughing.

The next lump of dirt hits him square in the chest, and then he's trying to find cover behind the stack of blocks, while Mercedes pelts him with more dirt. He's laughing too, and it's remarkably, wonderfully easy to laugh and behave so ridiculously. He ventures out to make a grab for some more clumps of dirt with which to arm himself, takes a hit to his backside, but then is back in cover and aiming a good throw at Mercedes' thigh. His next throw she intercepts with her shovel.

Eventually they are both filthy, breathless, and giggling; and Mercedes is calling for a cease fire. Kurt accedes and ventures carefully inside the house to get them a snack of hot green tea and cookies. They sit on the back patio and survey their work. Kurt pulls his layers back on as he cools down.

"Do you know how awesome my Maria opposite your Tony would have been?" Mercedes asks.

"Too awesome for this town," Kurt says, and they clink mugs.

"Rachel and Blaine were really fantastic though."

"Yeah," Kurt says with fondness warming his smile. "They were."

They nibble their cookies and sip their tea in silence for a time. It's comfortable, and Kurt realizes how much he's missed her. "You were my first real friend, you know," he says.

"You were mine, too," Mercedes replies.

Kurt turns to look at her, sees her smiling softly at him, the affection in her eyes. He hopes she sees the same in his. "I'm sorry if I haven't always been as good a friend as you deserve," Kurt says. It's an apology that is long overdue he suspects. He's still not sure exactly when they started to come apart, but it may have been when Blaine became his closest friend and he stopped prioritizing Mercedes. It had happened so fast.

But despite the necessity Kurt feels about it, Mercedes seems surprised by his apology. "What do you mean?" she asks.

Kurt steadies himself. "Back when I first started hanging out with Blaine. I wasn't... all that sweet to you. I blew off our dates and I took you for granted. And I'm sorry for that. If I hurt you."

"Kurt." She pauses. "You don't need to apologize for that. Not anymore."

Kurt shrugs and looks into his mug. "Maybe not, but I wanted to."

She accepts it with a nod. "Well, thank you," she says. "I won't lie, Kurt. It was hard at the time. But you were right about some things, and anyway, you and Blaine? You're the real deal. I hope you know that."

He glances over at her, surprised. "You really think so?"

"I do. I see how you are together, and it makes me believe I can find that kind of love with someone someday. That it exists and I'm not foolish to want it or be willing to wait for it."

"That, actually. It means a lot to me for you to say that," he says. "And I don't think you're foolish at all, to be willing to wait."

"I'm so happy for you, Kurt. For both of you."

He smiles again, but it doesn't quite take hold the way he wants it. He feel it flicker with nervousness. "We were supposed to be spending today together, Blaine and I. It's, ah... Today is one year since Blaine kissed me for the first time." It's the first time he's told anyone (apart from Carole) about today, that they're marking it. In fact he's never told anyone about their first kiss.

"Kurt, it's your anniversary!" She beams at him. "Congratulations."

Kurt can't help it, he grins widely and unselfconsciously.

"The first of many, I'm sure." she says.

"I... I really hope so," Kurt says. It comes out like a whispered confession, but the words are light on his tongue and bright in his heart; and he knows Blaine feels the same way.

"I'm sorry you couldn't spend the day with him," she says.

"Yeah, but it's okay," Kurt says, because it will be okay, and he remembers then, a lifetime ago, being so terrified, coming out to Mercedes, crying because he was so scared. And he remembers her accepting it as if it were nothing more than his confessing to her that he preferred vanilla over strawberry ice cream. More than that, it was the first time he'd said it to anyone: "I'm gay." Mercedes didn't flinch, she just went right on loving him, being his friend, being amazing. If she'd been anyone other than the person she is? He doesn't know how long it would have taken for him to find his courage again. Kurt sets his glass down and reaches out for Mercedes' hand. She reaches back. He gives a squeeze and says, "I'm really glad to be spending it with you."

"I'm really glad you called me," she says.

He lets go of her hand, thinks of something else on which having Mercedes opinion may be helpful. "Can I ask you something else?" he asks. "Less personal this time."

"Shoot," she says.

"You know I'm working on my audition piece for NYADA."

"Yep."

"I'm planning on singing "Music of the Night"."

"A good choice to show off your voice," Mercedes says, nodding.

"Yes, but, what do you think of 'Not the Boy Next Door'?"

Mercedes blinks at him as a slow smile bends her lips. "The Peter Allen one?"

"Yes," Kurt says, and hopes she's not about to laugh at him. He couldn't bear it.

Her eyes go wide. "Oh. My God. Kurt, ask me how many times I've watched Hugh's Tony performance?" Shes grinning now. "Actually don't ask me, because that is an embarrassingly high number, which is to say, yes, you should definitely do it."

Kurt finds himself grinning back. "Blaine thinks I should consider it too. But I haven't decided. I'm still concentrating on Phantom. I think it's more accessible. The Boy From Oz is kind of... provocative."

"Just like one Kurt Hummel," Mercedes says.

Kurt chuckles, and he wonders if he really should start practicing it too.

"Well," Mercedes says. "If you change your mind and you need some backup, count me in."

"I will," he promises.

"And, Kurt, I don't think I ever told you congratulations on getting the audition to NYADA. I'm proud of you, and I really hope you get in."

"Thanks," Kurt says. "What about you? Any plans yet?"

Mercedes smile crooks into a grimace, and she sighs. "I don't know. My parents really want me to go to college—and I do want to go to college—but they want me to go study something practical, like business or law or medicine, which is bor-ing. At least to me."

"Well, what do you want to do most? Assuming a perfect world."

"Me? I want to sing, Kurt. I mean really sing. I want to fill big spaces with my voice, sing in stadiums and theaters and concert halls. I want to sing to open the World Series or the Superbowl, and I want to sing for the president. I want to sing the song from the blockbuster romantic movie that gets played on the radio so much people get sick of it, and then I want to perform it live at the Oscars right before I win one..." She trails off with a wry smile directed at her tea.

"That's a good dream," Kurt says. "It's actually really easy to see you doing all of that."

Mercedes shakes her head. "No, it's too big. I don't even know where to start."

"Well, I don't know that either, but it isn't too big, Mercedes. It's just... this town is too small. Once you get out there, you'll see. There'll be enough room for your dream."

"Yeah, me and a million other girls. I don't know, Kurt. It's sweet of you to say, though."

"I believe in your dream," he says.

She smiles and sets down her mug. "That's good, but that garden's not going to plant itself." And they get back to work.

They get the concrete blocks arranged in a neat rectangle around the bed, and then they start putting the dirt back in, mixing it up with peat moss and compost and a little extra top soil.

Kurt's carefully brushing the soil from the surface of another shard of the blue and white plate he found while mixing up the dirt, when Mercedes says his name softly but urgently. He looks up at her, where she's kneeling across the bed from him with the pallet of spinach plants, trowel in hand. She smiles at him and nods her head in a gesture for him to look back over his shoulder. He twists and turns his head slowly, wondering if there's a rare bird to startle or some other timid thing.

It's not a bird or any sort of wild creature. It's Blaine, coming through the gate at the side of the house. He's dressed up in a suit with a large bouquet of flowers cradled in the bend of his elbow.

Kurt wonders at what point he fell asleep.