It's Christmas Day, and Blaine is in Kurt's space once more. But Kurt isn't looking back just yet, to where he's left Blaine by the entrance to the loft. Instead, he doffs his coat and goes to the kitchen where he's spied a slip of paper on the table. From behind Rachel's curtain comes the sound of his father's light snores. The hour is late, yawning at the edges of Kurt's consciousness, and, even after the walk from the subway, his ankles remain wobbly from the skating. His cold cheeks prickle as blood flow returns, and he picks up the note. It's from his Dad, informing him he's wearing earplugs, so he and Blaine don't need to tiptoe or whisper.

Kurt runs his thumb over the pattern the ink has furrowed into the paper, traces the familiar shapes of his father's handwriting. Instead of crumpling the note and throwing it away, he folds it with care and tucks it into the pocket of his waistcoat.

Then he crosses the kitchen to retrieve a glass from the shelf by the fridge. He takes a deep breath, and then he turns to check on Blaine.

Seeing Blaine, Kurt's heart responds with such an immediate sense of comfort and affection, only for Kurt's head to swiftly recall: "I was with someone." Then it all twists inside out into something nightmarish. The incongruency of it hurts: to look at Blaine—who isn't secretly evil, but earnest and nervous and so very sorry—and to feel something other than safe and good.

Blaine's not looking back at Kurt. He stands just inside the door, hesitating as he takes in the dimly lit loft. The only illumination comes from the colorful lights spangling the tree and the string draped above the kitchen window, bleeding a technicolor patchwork of light across the half-lowered blind. Blaine swings his backpack down from his shoulder and says, "I'll crash on the couch?" at the same time Kurt asks, "Would you like anything to drink?"

Self-consciously, Blaine laughs and shakes his head.

Kurt sets the glass down on the table. "I'll get you some bedding."

Overnight the chill in the loft grows bitter, so Kurt takes the spare fleece blanket off his bed for Blaine, and he retrieves the wool afghan from the trunk beneath it. He spares a rueful glance at his boyfriend pillow, Bruce, who also lies within the trunk. The top sheet from his spare sheet set and the two pillows from the unused side of his bed follow. He clasps the bundle of blankets and pillows in his arms and pauses for a long moment. His eyes sting and his chest aches, and he's not sure why because he's trying so hard not to think about anything too much. He's determined. And yet. He wipes his eyes on his shoulder, sniffs down the wetness in the back of his throat, and exits the privacy of his curtains.

Once Kurt's got Blaine settled, he asks him if he's sure there isn't anything else he needs. A cup of tea? Cocoa?

"No, thanks," Blaine says. "We should go to sleep or Santa won't come." Blaine's smile is too bright. Not exactly forced, but not entirely natural either. It makes Kurt feel tired.

Regardless, Kurt summons a smile to answer, though he can't unbend all the melancholy from it, and he can tell from the way Blaine's smile dims, that Blaine sees it. "Hey," Blaine says; his expression shifts back to what Kurt recognizes as purely sincere concern. He offers an open palm to Kurt. "May I? Hug you again?"

Kurt's gaze falls from Blaine's face to his hand; he swallows hard and nods.

There, in the kaleidoscope light of the Christmas tree, Blaine holds him. Less tightly this time and longer. His hands are so careful, smoothing over Kurt's shoulders and down his spine. It's something between the hug of lover and the hug of a friend. Kurt resists the desire to move closer, just tightens his hold on the back of Blaine's sweater, and he hears Blaine's breath catch.

"It's going to be okay, Kurt," Blaine murmurs. Which is absurd, but the whole situation is absurd, so Kurt doesn't voice his disagreement.

"I'm glad you're here," Kurt says, because that's true. And then he lets go. "I'll see you in the morning."

#

Christmas dinner.

The necessity of it wakes Kurt with a jolt. Darkness surrounds him, just the faintest glow of the city filtering in to shade and highlight the drape of the curtains around his room. Instinctively, Kurt reaches for his phone where it lies nearby on the bed, slips his thumb across its face to wake it. The nighttime chill is enough, the glass fogs with his breath, and Kurt shivers and squints against the painful twinge of the screen's light in his eyes. And he sighs. It's barely three AM. He's been in bed for little more than an hour.

Kurt sighs again, more emphatically this time; he rolls over and ignores the emptiness of his arms and his bed, ignores the impulse to retrieve Bruce. Instead he tucks his cold feet up closer to his body, pulls his bedding up to his ears, and tries to sink back into his mattress, back into rest. But his heart is beating too fast now, an unwitting victim of his subconscious panic. He's awake and too cold to find sleep again easily.

And his mind is determined in its emotional paralepsis: Whatever you do, don't think about the possibility that this is Dad's last Christmas.

So there's that. He didn't plan to feed other people, not even casually—certainly not as a combination of The Last Christmas Dinner For Your Dying Father along with The First Meal With Your Cheating Ex-Boyfriend Since He Broke Your Heart. Delivery Chinese and a pan of brownies isn't going to cut it. Christmas dinner for his family shouldn't be made by strangers, so going out is not an option either.

Kurt imagines his way through the pantry and fridge inventory to see what inspiration he may find there. First, he supposes, no meat; meat is bad for cancer. So is sugar. And salt and fat are bad for his Dad's heart. So: produce. Lots of vegetables and fruit. No fat, no salt, no sugar—no bird.

In the fridge he's got enough fresh vegetables: there's some broccoli, a red pepper, and mushrooms. He's got the traditional mire poix components: carrots, onions, celery. There's some sweet corn and a pack of spinach in the freezer. He could do some kind of vegetable stew or casserole. Rachel left some soymilk in the fridge. They've got raw cashews, nutritional yeast, tofu, and brown rice; he can come up with something, he's sure. Blaine will eat anything Kurt cooks, but his Dad—

His Dad will hate it. And since this could be his Dad's last Christmas dinner, it's got to be traditional turkey with cranberry sauce and gravy, mashed potatoes with butter, his grandmother's bread stuffing, and pie for dessert. They can think about the anti-cancer food after this.

Which means he needs to get a turkey. On Christmas day.

Kurt turns to his stomach and groans into his pillow. It's not an insurmountable challenge in New York City. It's just... It's everything really.

His Dad has cancer. That's a too new thing, not incorporated into him yet, a hard block of information that hasn't disseminated into his being. He knows when it hits him it's going to— He doesn't want to think about it.

This time he eludes his worrying brain by reorienting on his other problem: His cheating ex-boyfriend, who has stubbornly remained his most beloved friend, is uncomfortably asleep on the lumpy futon in the living room. It's another strange thing, stranger in some ways. He's faced his father's mortality before, but Blaine's betrayal and his own heart's insistence on such terrible ambivalence, it's a complex of emotions he's never prepared himself for, doesn't know how to begin to untangle the anger from the love, the fear from the desire to forgive, the regret from the longing—the delicate flutter of white-winged hope from the sticky web of immutable grief.

And no matter how often he says it: 'cheating ex-boyfriend', the inescapable truth is that it's Blaine. Just Blaine. Blaine, the shape of whom remains inscribed upon Kurt's heart, indelible despite the break. Blaine, who cannot be reduced to such a glib phrase, no matter how Kurt wishes he could dismiss the pain of it with each bitter utterance of it. He rolls to his back, takes a deep breath of cold air. Kurt pushes his fingertips between the buttons of his pajamas, right over his heart. It still beats, too rapidly, but it hasn't stopped, though there have been times he expected it to.

And then there's next month, starting classes at NYADA. He's not sure how to feel about that right now. The triumph of his admission is remote, the importance diminished. In there somewhere he knows it's still the lynchpin of his future; he's still happy and proud and excited, but he can't feel it. It's just one more thing.

Like his need to get a fucking turkey.

But it's three AM Christmas morning. There's little to be done.

Sleep continues to elude him. He thinks about getting up for a cup of chamomile tea, but he doesn't wish to disturb Blaine. So Kurt ends up reading: the dog eared pages and prose of Gregory Maguire's Wicked provide familiar company.

#

By six AM he's still awake, and the light by the sofa clicks on, drenching his wall of drapery with light and the wavy, cluttered criss-cross silhouette of the bookcase. Kurt sets his book aside and lies there some time longer listening for Blaine. Hears the muffled scuff of shoeless feet upon the floorboards, the snick of the bathroom door, running water, and then a muted clank in the kitchen and the soft gasp of the fridge door. Kurt takes a deep breath and decides to get up.

The ache of far too little sleep weighs heavily behind his eyes as he pulls on his winter dressing gown and a pair of thick socks for his cold feet. He finds Blaine in the kitchen at the sink, rinsing a glass. His hair is neat, and he's well pulled together in his crisp pajamas and neatly tied robe. "Hey," Kurt says softly, tucks his hands into his pockets.

Blaine looks up. "Couldn't sleep?"

"No," Kurt says, approaches the pale wash of light from the kitchen.

"I never can at Christmas either," Blaine says. His smile flickers before it holds.

Kurt makes sure he smiles back.

Blaine sets his glass down beside the sink. "You want coffee?"

"Please."

Kurt sits at the kitchen table and watches Blaine set up the espresso machine. His motions are so familiar and efficient, it creates a warp in Kurt's mind, a little skip of memory to back home in Lima, to his kitchen the Saturday morning of the day he'd left for New York:

Blaine had stayed the night prior; they'd gotten little sleep. Kurt spent most of the night packing, Blaine helped, and they tried to have all the conversations they needed to have before they parted. Strange that they hadn't made love that night, that there was no deliberate 'one last time'. Somehow the suddenness of Kurt's departure, the logistics of it—in the stale incandescent illumination of those late, last few hours together, what might have been urgency turned to anxiety. That had soured Kurt's libido. Neither of them had been in the mood.

Kurt remembers sitting at the kitchen island, in the warmth of the morning, watching Blaine operate this same machine. The summer sun angled through the window over the sink and lit Blaine's bed head, caressed the curve of his cheekbone, brightened his eyes. As the machine hissed and steamed and the aroma of fresh coffee filled the air, Kurt's anxiety faded, and, in that absence, a quick pang of regret had pierced him, because they hadn't made love last night.

But when Blaine had turned to him and smiled, Kurt's regret vanished as suddenly as it had appeared, for Blaine's smile promised the patience of Penelope. And in that moment, Kurt believed wholly that it was all going to be fine. They'd see each other on weekends, Skype every day, and mail handwritten love letters scented with their cologne. It was going to be romantic. In retrospect, it seems so childish.

Now, on this dark, chilled Christmas morning in New York, that old belief—that faith Kurt had—seems an especially cruel thing to haunt him. Blaine leans against the counter facing Kurt, arms crossed over his chest and his unfocused attention resting in some indeterminate place on the opposite wall. A shadow clouds his gaze. It may simply be lack of sleep, or it may be something else. Kurt wonders if Blaine is thinking about that day too. But he doesn't ask, and Blaine doesn't volunteer any of his thoughts. It's not the comfortable silence of past mornings. Kurt's never been good at making small talk, especially not with Blaine.

Eventually Blaine straightens and says, "I nearly forgot." He leaves the kitchen for the living room and bends over his backpack where it rests by the futon. He rummages for a few moments while the pressure in the espresso machine builds to a rumble. When Blaine straightens, he's holding a square cookie tin; it's red with gold and silver stars. He brings it to Kurt and sets it on the table. "These are for you," Blaine says. "Merry Christmas."

Inside the tin, Kurt finds neatly stacked, inexpertly iced cookies: gingerbread snowmen. Some wear scarves, some bow ties. They're adorable in their slight dishevelment. Kurt feels his weary smile widen into warmth, and that warmth blossoms deeper, displaces some of the ache in his chest. The feeling is welcome.

"I was going to mail them," Blaine explains, "when you said you weren't coming ho— Back to Ohio, but then your Dad called me, and I realized I could give them to you in person. I hope you don't mind."

"Mind?" Kurt asks with a smile. "Why would I mind? You know how I feel about your gingerbread." It comes out sounding like he's flirting, like gingerbread is a double entendre for something, except it's not. It never has been, it's just... It's too tempting to fall into old, comfortable habits. "Thank you," Kurt finally says, and he realizes the possibility that Blaine means to keep his promises from last year—even if they're not together. It's quite a gift.

"I'm glad you like them," Blaine says. His eyes shine.

"I don't really have anything for you," Kurt says. He glances down at the cookies and their wobbly smiles. Except that's not entirely true. He does a have a gift, something he bought Blaine before. Before Blaine was with someone and Kurt stopped wanting to give him anything. It wasn't a gift meant for Christmas, just an 'I miss you' sort of thing. It's an old leather bound volume of Shakespeare's tragedies. Hardly a suitable Christmas gift, but it's practical, so perhaps it'll work. "Well, I do, sort of," Kurt amends. "But it's not exactly—"

"It's okay, you don't have to give me anything."

But he wants to. "It's Christmas, Blaine," Kurt says. "I bought it for you a while ago. I'll go get it, but I won't wrap it."

Back in his bedroom, Kurt tries to ignore the swoop of emotional vertigo as he retrieves the book of tragedies from the bottom drawer of his dresser where it's nestled beneath a pair of sweaters. His attention doesn't linger on the other things lying beside it, the face down photo frame, the shiny red box. He unwraps the book from the tissue paper the shopkeeper packaged it in.

In the kitchen, Blaine waits for him, with two cups of coffee made. Kurt presents him the book without flourish. "It's meant to be part of a set of three, but it was on its own. I liked it and thought of you in Mrs. Kirk's class this year, reading Hamlet and Macbeth and I—" Kurt shrugs. "I thought of you."

Blaine takes it, runs his fingertips over the dinged up red binding, faded to orange along the spine and darker at the edges with the patina of use—and Kurt loves that the book was read, not simply displayed—the pages, brown edged with age still hold all the beautiful illustrations. It's from 1846, and it should have been expensive, but without its shelf-mates, Kurt could afford it. He thought Blaine could give an orphaned book a good home. "I love it," Blaine says. "Thank you, Kurt."

"So I guess the theme of the day is cookies and tragedy," Kurt says, meaning it to be a joke, but it falls flat—so flat. "I'm sorry," he says, and he's so tired, this time he can't stop himself from tearing up in the wake of his seesawing mood. He drops his head to his folded arms upon the table.

"Hey," Blaine moves to the chair next to him, and rests a hand on his back. "It's... it's not okay. I know it's not, but it will be, all right?"

"This might be his last Christmas, Blaine," Kurt mumbles.

"Shh, no, sweetheart, it's not. It's not." Blaine rubs gentle circles across Kurt's shoulder blades.

"It's why he came. It's why he brought you. I know my Dad," Kurt mumbles.

"He came because he wanted to spend Christmas with you. And he brought me because he knew we had plans."

And oh, god, those plans. Kurt sniffles discreetly against his sleeve, and then he lifts his head and looks at Blaine. "I know I said we'd talk, but I can't, not today, not... It's just. It's too much, you understand?"

"Yeah. It's fine. We're fine, Kurt. I just want you to know I'm here for you, okay? Whatever you need."

Kurt breathes, and the tears stop. "Do you want to know what I need most today, Blaine?" he asks.

"Tell me," Blaine says, so intent and sweetly concerned.

"I need a god damned turkey," Kurt says, and he can't quite crimp the quick grin from his lips as he says it.

Blaine's eyes widen. "You need a..." He trails off with a laugh smothered against his own shoulder.

#

The sun's coming up, warming the fogged glass of the kitchen window. Kurt goes over to raise the blinds higher. He hears movement from Rachel's room, his Dad's familiar morning 'harrumph'. Kurt fills the kettle while Blaine returns to the living room to fold his bedding.

His Dad emerges in his terry robe and flannel pajamas, "You kids got any more of that coffee?"

"Is that safe with your arrhythmia, Dad?"

"Yeah, doctor even recommended it." His Dad's hand rests on his shoulder for an instant, squeezes and then lets go with a pat.

"Okay," Kurt blinks, sets the kettle on the stove, doesn't turn it on. Goes instead to the espresso machine to clear it out for a reload. "I'll make some fresh."

"Thanks," his Dad says and calls out a louder, "Merry Christmas!" for Blaine's benefit. Then he heads for the bathroom. The radiator ticks and crackles to life, so it must be eight o'clock.

#

For breakfast, Kurt makes vegan french toast; Blaine gets a Christmas playlist going on the stereo in the living room; and his Dad hovers—as much as one can hover while seated at the kitchen table. "You sure I can't help?" he asks for the third time as he watches Kurt whisk soymilk into cinnamon, cornstarch, and chickpea flour.

Kurt adds the tiniest pinch of salt, and he relents. "You can slice the bananas and wash the blueberries," he says.

His Dad sets his coffee mug down and, with a smile, gets up. Kurt can't help but look for signs of weakness or pain or other indicators of ill health, but his Dad seems the same as always.

"Just like old times, huh? Making brunch together?" his Dad says, getting the chopping board from behind the sink.

"Yeah," Kurt says, returning the smile. He glances across the loft to the living room, catches Blaine's attention long enough to snare a smile of his own. It's nice, everyone smiling. Except that Blaine's the one hovering now, standing near the Christmas tree, looking uncertain about what to do next. And it's not like Kurt wishes either his Dad or Blaine weren't here, it's just so much to balance. A day that should be simply celebratory is fraught with peculiar responsibilities and requires such complex interpersonal choreography, Kurt feels entirely off balance. But he can do this. He will.

"Hey, Blaine?" Kurt calls, aims to keep his tone casual, not at all demanding or expectant.

Blaine's "Yeah?" comes so promptly, it nearly steps on the question mark.

"Could you please find me a market that's open today and selling fresh turkeys?"

#

By the time breakfast is ready, Blaine has made a few phone calls and has a short list of vendors within walking distance.

They sit at the table. The loft has warmed quickly, with the morning sun and heat from cooking adding to the radiator's efforts. "Mmm," his Dad says. "I've sure missed your cooking, kiddo."

"Me too," Blaine offers softly, almost shyly.

Kurt accepts the praise with a nod, and he dares to relax, tries to find some comfort in the morning breakfast table. "Then you can both do the dishes," he says lightly.

After breakfast, they go to the living room to open presents. There aren't as many parcels under the tree as there would've been back at home, and Kurt's terribly aware that he has little to give beyond himself and his hospitality. He hopes it will be enough.

There are hand-knitted scarves for each of them from Carole, an iTunes gift card from Finn, and, "Here," his Dad says, reaching under the tree for a flat rigid parcel, wrapped simply in green and red striped paper. He passes it to Kurt. "I got you this, too."

Kurt takes it with a, "Thanks," and he can't help but glance at Blaine, his other 'gift' from his Dad. And while Kurt knows his father's intention was not that Kurt consider Blaine an object to be given—the gift was about enabling friendship and support (and perhaps even love). But Blaine sits, in the repurposed leather car seat, prim and straight-backed, ankles crossed and smiling, looking very much like he's trying to be the best gift he can possibly be. As if Kurt could've—or still may wish to—return him.

And it's scarcely ten AM.

The present from his father is a folding silver photo frame. On one side is an old photo from the Christmas when he was five and Santa brought him his dollhouse. He stands in front of it grinning as widely as his five year old self could, with his mother kneeling beside him, arm about his waist. She wears the green and magenta enameled hummingbird pendant Kurt had got her that year. His father stands next to her, his hand upon her shoulder. They're all smiling. The tree shines brightly behind them even in the time faded photograph.

The other side is last year's Christmas, crisp and new: his Dad, Carole, Finn, Kurt, Rachel, and Blaine, all bundled up in their winter coats, pink-cheeked and laughing in front of the snow-draped cedar in the front yard.

Two happy memories. "Dad," Kurt manages before the threat of tears closes his throat. He nods to express his gratitude, and—god—as much as the photos mean to him, why is this so fucking sad? Why must the day feel like an ending? As if all there is to do is look back.

"You okay?" his Dad asks, and Blaine murmurs something that sounds concerned.

Kurt swallows his tears, remembers what his father said last night, to hold the people you love close. He looks up, meets his father's gaze and then Blaine's. "We should take one together today," he says. "A photo."

It's tricky to arrange: there's no tripod and just their phone cameras, so it ends up being a cramped selfie of the three of them, with Kurt in the middle. Then Blaine takes one of him and his Dad, and his Dad takes one of him and Blaine, and Kurt emails them to Carole, wishes her a Merry Christmas, tells her he misses her and Finn, and promises they'll call later today.

#

Kurt showers and dresses. He chooses his clothes carefully, soft fabrics, rich colors. When he comes out of his bedroom, he finds his Dad is settled comfortably on the futon, scrolling through the cable menu, and Blaine is reading a magazine. Kurt double-checks the list he's typed into his phone against his intended menu and realizes he won't be able to carry it all, not with a sixteen-pound turkey to lug. He'd prefer to go alone, so he could catch his breath and clear his head, but it's not a day to be stubborn.

"I'm going to need some help getting the groceries," he says, glancing up from his phone to Blaine.

"Sure," Blaine says.

His Dad waves off his fussing before he goes, insists he can fill his own damn water glass, and yes, he's warm enough, and he's even not remotely hungry. So Kurt and Blaine get their coats and they go.

#

On the street, the air is dry and brittle with cold, and dirty slush lines the gutters. Above, the sky is a cloud wisped blue-tinged gray. Kurt inhales deeply. The icy air comes into his lungs like a ribbon of steel, coils tightly around his heart with its sharp edges. He can't hold it, lets it out again fast in a puff of fog.

Beside him Blaine is smiling and at ease, with the scarf Carole knitted him wound around his throat: it's proof that his father and Carole still love Blaine. And that hurts in a weird way, even though Kurt knows there's no one taking sides. Ultimately it was Kurt who invited Blaine back into his life. But there's something else too. A knot of insoluble feeling remains a lumpish tangle in Kurt's chest, for his parents' continuing affection for Blaine soothes an even deeper wound within Kurt. It eases the quietest, private part of him that has been so ashamed—ashamed for foolishly trusting and loving in the first place, for having such naive romantic fantasies that he walked right into this pain, blind to the danger. Because maybe there were signs, things he should have seen in Blaine to warn him off. Somehow he should have been smarter and known before it was too late. Protected himself better.

So for his Dad and Carole to still welcome Blaine without hesitation or reservation, it means perhaps his judgment wasn't so poor that he was wrong to have fallen in love with Blaine. That he wasn't stupid to trust and dream and make that leap. His parents' continued inclusion of Blaine in the family is motivated by genuine affection, and whatever he and Blaine are now: friends, ex-lovers—something new and unnamed. Blaine is still welcome here.

It's not enough to resolve Kurt's dull mood as they walk. Blaine makes several attempts to draw Kurt's attention to things of beauty or topics of amusement, but Kurt doesn't have it in him to smile or laugh, can't summon much more than a wry, "Uh huh."

After a few blocks Blaine soon gives up trying to cheer Kurt. For some reason that makes Kurt even sadder.

#

Back at the loft, in the kitchen, Kurt takes off his dark blue cardigan, rolls up his sleeves, and washes his hands thoroughly while Blaine unpacks the contents of their paper shopping bags to the table.

"You want me to take care of the bird?" his Dad asks. It's always been his Dad's gig on Thanksgiving and Christmas, preparing and roasting the turkey, and—no thanks to Brody—Kurt still hasn't cooked one himself. But this is his home, and preparing this meal for his father feels like the most important meal of his life.

"No, thanks, Dad. I'll do it this year."

"Let me know if you need help," his Dad says and turns back to the television where some sports journalists are winding everyone up for the basketball game.

Turning to Blaine, Kurt picks up the turkey from where it rests on the kitchen table, wrapped in butcher's paper. He speaks more softly. "You can go watch the game with him if you want. I've got this covered."

Blaine blinks at him. For a moment he looks disappointed. But Blaine recovers with a quick, reflexive smile and says, "Okay."

Kurt carries the bird carcass to the sink, sets it down, and gets the roasting pan from the oven drawer. He turns on the oven to preheat. Behind him, he hears the rattle of Blaine grabbing ice from the freezer, the musical clink of it tumbling into his glass. When Blaine finally exits the kitchen space, some of the tension drains down Kurt's spine and leaves with him. There's the murmur of the television, familiar and easily distanced into meaninglessness.

As Kurt unwraps the turkey from its paper, the weight of his fatigue lifts marginally. He's able to focus on this one thing. Just this: preparing the meal. He maneuvers the heavy carcass into the sink, takes a breath, and reaches into the neck cavity to remove the parcel of giblets. Then he turns on the tap to begin washing the bird.

Handling meat like this—particularly an entire dead animal—has never been easy. It's more than the tactile unpleasantness of its cold, wet fleshiness beneath his hands. It's that he can't approach it as an object or distance his awareness of it as the body of a formerly living being. So, as Kurt turns the turkey in the sink beneath the stream of water and works his fingers over it to clean it of any lingering debris, he thinks about the animal it was, so that he may find gratitude for its sacrifice.

He gets it patted dry and into the roasting pan. Once the turkey is in the oven, he'll make the pie and the cranberry sauce, and then he'll start prepping ingredients for his other dishes. He's running through the recipes to best order those tasks as he turns with the turkey-laden roasting dish. He'll finish dressing the bird on the table, but he needs the sink clear to wash the herbs for the herb butter. (Not for the first time, Kurt wishes the kitchen had more counter space.)

His hands are wet, the pan is heavy and unwieldy, and Kurt underestimates the folly of fatigue coupled with mild distraction. The handle of the roasting pan slips from his left hand, and—in that impotent flash of understanding exactly what's happening but being unable to react quickly enough—everything crashes to the floor with the grotesque splat-thud of dead flesh, and the horrendous clang of metal.

Kurt stops. He stands and stares at the empty black enamel pan, the pale bird carcass, and the wet smear it's left on the floorboards. A wave of— He's not sure what it is, but it's hot and cold and dizzying, and it surfaces behind his eyes. He starts to cry. Not noisily, but he can't keep the tears from flooding his vision, or the weakness trickling down his arms to numb his hands.

His Dad says something—a question—but Kurt doesn't turn to look back toward the living room. Instead he gathers his voice to call out, as calmly and with as much strength as he can muster. "I'm fine. It's all fine."

Then he sighs and bends down to pick up the turkey, dumps it back in the sink with a hollow thunk. He pauses, gripping the cold metal edge of the basin, and he tightens his lips against a sob that surges up out of nowhere. He shudders with the effort of keeping it in and turns his face to wipe his tears on his shoulder.

Soft footsteps fall behind him. The sound of the pan scraping the floor follows. Then, presence and warmth near his shoulder. "Hey," Blaine says softly. He sets the roasting pan next to the sink. "May I help?" Blaine asks.

"I'm fine," Kurt says and sniffs. "It was just an accident, I'm fine. You can go back to—"

"You don't have to do this alone," Blaine says.

Another sob lurches up from his chest. It makes Kurt gasp and squeeze his eyes shut. "Yes, I do," he whispers, because he knows he does. He may not be able to articulate the logic of it, but he does.

Gently, with a hand cupped behind Kurt's elbow, Blaine replies with undeniable conviction: "No, Kurt. You don't."

It's the way Blaine says his name. Kurt stills, relaxes his eyelids, but keeps his eyes closed. Draws a deep breath in through his nose. Lets it out slowly through his mouth.

"Let me help," Blaine says. "Please?"

Blaine's sweetness is enough; Kurt doesn't have it in him to resist. He opens his eyes and gives in: "All right."

"Okay, so what do we need to do?" Blaine asks, pushing his sleeves up his forearms.

Kurt manages a grateful smile and sniffs again. "I'll clean the turkey, get that done, and—ugh—I'll need to disinfect the floor," Kurt says, clears his throat, thinks. "Um, so if you could get the butter from the fridge—both pounds—and the fresh thyme. Oh, and then..."

As he runs through the requirements of his menu plan and explains things to Blaine, it settles his nerves. Kurt's eyes dry, and his head clears. Normally, he doesn't like having someone else in the kitchen with him, especially not when he's preparing something complex and time consuming, but Blaine is attentive without being smothering, and he takes direction so well—he knows Kurt so well. With him, it's easy. Blaine carves out a space to work on the opposite side of the table, and they get it done together.

By the time the game starts, everything is well under control. All the vegetables are cut, other ingredients measured. The turkey and the pie are in the oven, and the bread stuffing awaits its turn. Kurt says to Blaine, "Would you go keep my Dad company, please? I'll make some popcorn and join you soon."

#

Carole calls during half-time. His Dad puts the call on speaker and sets his phone on the coffee table so everyone can talk, and Carole does the same at her end. The loft fills with the exuberant muddle of familial voices. It sounds like everyone's well into the eggnog over at Carole's sister's, possibly even Finn. There's laughter and well-wishing and questions about gifts. They got snow in Zanesville. No one mentions the cancer.

A pang of sadness lingers within Kurt when they all say their goodbyes. It wasn't the private conversation Kurt had hoped to have with Carole, but perhaps today is not the right day.

#

Once the game is over and the oven timer has gone off for the final time, Blaine sets the table—makes the most of the decor items in the loft to create a centerpiece—and Kurt serves the food. The dinner conversation is strained in a way that grows uncomfortable for Kurt. It's not that it's awkward, but talking about the small things—like the differences between the D.C. Metro and the New York subway, or the record snowfalls back in Lima, or the internal politicking of the House Democratic Caucus (which on a different day wouldn't feel quite so much like a small topic)—it feels disingenuous. It's like they're skating over the seriousness of his father's cancer diagnosis with mock obliviousness. Trying too hard to make this uncomplicated and happy, like nothing is wrong. It feels dishonest, and he doesn't like it.

So, after the dinner dishes are cleared, Blaine is whipping some cream, and Kurt is slicing the pie for dessert, he turns over his shoulder and asks, "Can you tell me what your treatment plan is looking like, Dad? What's coming up?"

"Kurt, we don't have to talk about this today. I told you, there's no need for you to worry."

Kurt rolls his eyes and sets down a plate of pie in front of his Dad. "It's too late for that. I'm worrying anyway, and I'd feel better knowing more, so I can be prepared."

Blaine brings the bowl of cream to the table and sets it down quietly. His Dad picks up his fork and looks at the cream longingly. It's comically pathetic. Kurt pushes the bowl toward his Dad. "For god's sake, it's Christmas. Have some whipped cream on your pie and tell me what's going on."

"Geez, no need to be so bossy, kid."

"Do you want me to give you guys some privacy?" Blaine asks. "I was going to call my parents."

"Up to you," his Dad says.

"I don't mind if you stay," Kurt says. "You may as well know what's going on."

Blaine nods and sits. Kurt serves him some pie and seats himself.

"Okay," his Dad says, and he gives Kurt a more complete picture. He's got an appointment this week at John Hopkins with another specialist. The cancer is stage one, so there's no surgery scheduled yet, and he's not taking any chemotherapy drugs. He is on something to boost his immune system. There's going to be more tests and another biopsy to see how the cancer is developing before they settle on how to best approach it.

"Wait and see? That's it?" Kurt asks.

"For now," his Dad says. "When the cancer is this new, there's a chance the body'll take care of it, with the right support. But all options are on the table."

"They're not worried it'll spread while they're waiting?"

"It may grow, but there's time. The doctors, they want to know what they're dealing with before they start cutting into me or feeding me poison."

"But it's cancer," Kurt says. "What if it's really aggressive?"

"They don't think it is."

Kurt blinks and spreads a dollop of cream evenly over the top of his pie. It's still warm, and the base of the cream melts, making it slip over the edge and drip down the side. Kurt tries to push it all back up into symmetry.

"We just got to be patient, Kurt, and wait for the doctors."

"This just... It doesn't seem like something to wait for, Dad. Are you sure there's nothing you're not telling me? Like it's actually more serious and you're trying to spare me—"

"No, hey. I'd never mislead you over something like this. Not after what we've been through."

"It's cancer, Dad. Anything could happen. You know that. I hate the thought that you're just sitting there and it's inside you, growing."

"Kurt, look, buddy. Yeah, the cancer could grow real fast. That's not impossible. I could die in a car crash tomorrow too. Neither of those things is likely. My doctors know what they're doing. We've got to trust them, all right? They tell me more guys die with prostate cancer than of it. The numbers are on our side."

"Okay..." Kurt says, but he's not feeling reassured.

"If something goes bad, I won't keep it from you. I promise, you'll know. You'll be my first phone call. But until then, I need you to trust me, too. You don't need to worry about me yet."

Kurt sighs. "I'm still going to worry, Dad."

"I know you are," his Dad says with warmth and a smile. He reaches over and puts his hand on the wrist of the hand in which Kurt's holding his fork.

Kurt leaves off poking at the whipped cream and looks at his Dad. "Are you scared?" Kurt asks.

"I'd be lying if I said I wasn't," his Dad says. "But we're going to be okay."

Kurt nods, for his Dad's sake if not his own, to accept his father's optimism. But he doesn't believe it himself. He can't trust himself to believe it; he has to be prepared for the worst. So he looks up and smiles. "More pie?" he asks.

"That'd be great," his Dad says.

"I'll get it for you," Blaine offers. He stands and takes his Dad's plate over to the counter. It draws Kurt's attention, and he's impressed then, at how Blaine's just been there, quietly steadfast, offering support but not intruding. And Kurt can't imagine how awkward this is for him. Which makes Kurt even more grateful for Blaine, that's he's been enduring this to be present for Kurt. Kurt wonders if he's missing his family. How their Christmas party went this year.

"Thanks, Blaine," Kurt says. "And, um, if you want to call your parents, you can use my room."

"Oh, sure, thank you," Blaine says. He sets the plate down on the table. "I'll, um, do that now then?"

Kurt nods and smiles, and Blaine goes. When Kurt hears the murmur of his voice, he turns back to his Dad. "Thank you for bringing him with you," Kurt says.

"It's not too hard?" his Dad asks. "Having him here?"

It's certainly not not hard, but Kurt knows: "It'd be a lot harder without him."