Blaine walks calmly to the stairs, but as soon as he gets there, far enough away from the heart of the living room that neither his grandpa nor Kurt will be able to see, he bolts. He knows his grandfather wants to talk to Kurt alone, and Blaine respects that, but he can't help his curiosity. His grandfather didn't divulge the specifics of Kurt's visit. He told Blaine that Kurt is a photographer and that he's visiting to photograph him. The last photographer who came by to photograph Devon Anderson was from Time magazine, but that was long before Blaine was born. Blaine has a copy of the issue framed on the wall in his room, his grandfather's face occupying an inset box on the cover along with the faces of other well-known actors from the 50s, 60s, and 70s. But why Kurt was there, and for what, Blaine's grandfather hadn't explained.

His grandfather also neglected to mention how handsome their guest for spring break was. Blaine can't help the smile that blooms on his lips when he thinks about him. He's kind of like…he almost looks like… Nope. Kurt is so uniquely handsome, Blaine can't think of anyone to compare him to.

Blaine leaps the last three steps, landing in the downstairs hallway, and races into the kitchen. He slides in on his socked feet over the polished tile as he reaches for the refrigerator door handle.

“Hey, hey, hey!” a booming female voice scolds from the island on the opposite side of the room. “No running in my kitchen!”

“Sorry, Lil,” Blaine says, working against a lack of traction to get to the refrigerator, “but he's here.”

“Ah,” Lillian says, a knowing look on her matronly face as she continues to slice mushrooms. “And what does he need so urgently that you're racing around like a chicken with no head?”

“A Diet Coke.” Blaine opens the refrigerator door and peruses the shelves. “Diet Coke, Diet Coke…I don't see any…do we not have any Diet Coke?”

“Try the other fridge,” Lillian suggests, motioning over her shoulder with her utility knife to a second stainless steel fridge that they kept stocked mainly with alcohol, but also drink mixes and soft drinks.

“Oh, duh!” Blaine slides his way across the kitchen to the other fridge and opens the door. He finds what he needs smack dab on the middle shelf. “Yup. Here it is.”

Blaine pulls out a can and shuts the refrigerator door. He takes a step, but stops to consider the can in his hand, ice cold aluminum sticking to his warm skin.

“Do you think he's going to want a glass?” Blaine asks, putting the can on the counter and going into the cupboard.

“Possibly,” Lillian answers, using her knife to sweep the mushroom slices into a large, steaming pan on the stove.

“And ice,” Blaine says, not really addressing the woman watching him with amusement. “He's going to want ice to keep his drink cold.”

Lillian watches Blaine fill the glass halfway with ice from the dispenser on the fridge door. He holds the glass up to make sure it's perfect, then adds a few more slivers.

“Okay,” he says, satisfied with the level of ice in the glass. “Oh, and Lil, we'll need another place setting for dinner.”

“Already on it,” she says, eyeing Blaine as he heads back out to the hallway with cup in hand…but no can of soda.

“Oh, Blaine?” she calls, arms crossed.

He turns to her from the doorway and raises an eyebrow.

“Yes?”

“Are you forgetting something?”

Blaine looks at his hands and smirks.

“Thanks, Lil,” he says, going back for the can. He has it in his hands, heading out the door, when Lillian calls to him again.

“Blaine?”

“Yes?” He stops with one foot over the threshold, eager to get back upstairs, but too polite to say so. Lillian watches Blaine fidget, one foot in the kitchen, one foot out, and laughs to herself.

“Is he really that cute?”

Blaine stops fidgeting. He smiles slowly and sighs.

“The cutest.”

***

Despite the fact that Blaine hurried to get back to the living room before the end of the discussion, he enters on the scene right as Kurt says, “So, would it be alright if I used you as the subject of my project?”

Devon reaches a hand to Kurt. Kurt leans forward and takes it.

“Kurt,” Devon says, emotion welling in his eyes, “I would be honored.”

“Does that mean he can stay here?” Blaine rushes in, garnering a surprised look from Kurt and an amused one from his grandfather. “I mean, you know, because staying here might help you with your project (that I know nothing about) so you wouldn't have to travel, and…we have room. Plenty of room.”

“Actually, I was planning on staying at the Holiday Inn,” Kurt says, not wanting to assume an invitation since Blaine was making the offer and not Devon. There was no mention of lodging in the email, so Kurt assumed he'd be staying at a hotel. “The one right off the highway?”

“Oh” – Blaine deflates – “well, I guess, yeah, that Holiday Inn's nice.” Two sets of eyes turn curiously on him. “N-not that I've ever been there, but, I've driven by and it looks…nice.”

Devon shakes his head, far too entertained by the back and forth bad flirting by these two boys, but mostly from his own grandson. Devon is surprised. He can't speak for Kurt, but he had thought Blaine would fare better. After all, Devon and Blaine come from the same gene pool. Devon's signature brand of savoir-faire couldn't be found anywhere in his son's body, Blaine's father, but Devon always assumed it skipped a generation. Cooper, Blaine's older brother, seems to have his fair share, but Blaine is different. When it comes to romantic sensibilities, Blaine is a bit more…special. Which is probably why Blaine and his father never see eye-to-eye.

But the Anderson DNA is strong in Blaine.

And regardless, Blaine's seen all of Devon's movies. He should have learned something.

“Kurt, we have tons of room,” Devon says. “And Blaine's right – it'll save you trouble. Besides, it would be nice to have another soul knocking around in this big house.”

“We have an indoor swimming pool,” Blaine says, trying to sell Kurt on the idea, “a tennis court, an exercise room…a waterfall! And the beach out front is private.”

Kurt's eyebrows shoot up. He doesn't want to seem too eager, but Devon's offer is ideal. Staying at the Holiday Inn for a week would tax Kurt's budget, mostly because he's stubborn. As if Great Neck isn't expensive enough, he chose the closest hotel to the house, which means the closest hotel to the beach, and one with a workout room.

“Well, in that case,” Kurt says, “you might not get me to leave.”

“Good,” Blaine says suavely, even though his cheeks start to color.

“Great,” Devon says. “Now that that's settled, Blaine can help you settle into a room upstairs. And you boys should get ready for dinner. Our Lillian is an excellent cook, Kurt.”

“She really is,” Blaine agrees with a lot of head nodding.

“Thank you,” Kurt says, “so much.”

“Oh, and here's your Diet Coke.” Blaine offers Kurt the can and the glass of ice. Kurt takes one look at it, at the ice melting and shifting in the glass, at the droplets of water sliding down the side of the can, and suddenly, sitting still becomes excruciating.

“Uh, can you maybe show me to the restroom first?”

***

“These are really impressive,” Kurt says, looking at an enlargement on Blaine's bedroom wall – a tinted black and white manip of Blaine's grandfather as a young man, set against a modern, abstract background. “Did you do the tinting digitally or…”

After Kurt finished in the bathroom, Blaine helped him grab his bags from his Navigator (commenting on how lucky Kurt was to have all that interior and trunk space because Blaine's Jaguar XKR barely had room for a third of his luggage) and practically dragged Kurt upstairs to his bedroom to show him samples of his work.

With his bags waiting in the hallway, Kurt walks leisurely through Blaine's bedroom, focusing on the pictures he knows are Blaine's, hung between old movie posters of Devon's and pieces by other artists and photographers.

“No, I hand tinted it,” Blaine says, pride slipping into his voice. “It actually took longer than it might seem for a simple dual color tinting, but I had to get the bowtie just right.” Blaine walks over to his dresser, opens the top drawer, and pulls out the same tie from the photograph to show Kurt the complicated aquamarine hue. “See? Getting the right saturation took forever.”

“Well, you did an incredible job,” Kurt says, reaching for the bowtie. Blaine happily hands it over, watching as Kurt brings it close to his eyes to examine the way the fibers aren't individually one color, but a mixture of blues and greens in subtle, varying shades to produce the illusion of aquamarine the viewer sees from afar. “I have to admit, tinting is my weakness, but you seem to have a knack for it.” Kurt raises his eyes. “I might even be jealous.”

Blaine smiles so wide, Kurt's surprised that there's room left on his face for his dimples.

Kurt peeks over at the open drawer and sees a mass of bowties, placed in neat rows and columns, taking up the whole top drawer. A lot of these ties Kurt recognizes from Devon's photographs; even in black and white, the patterns are unmistakable. Some of the other ties are featured in the pictures of Devon that Blaine has on his walls.

“So, did you swipe your grandpa's whole wardrobe,” Kurt asks, “or just the bowties?”

Blaine keeps smiling, but he looks stung.

“I know it might seem a little ridiculous, or old-fashioned…”

“No,” Kurt says. “I'm sorry. I'm teasing. To be honest, I kind of have a bowtie fetish myself.” Kurt takes out his iPhone, opens his photo gallery, and hands the phone over to Blaine. Blaine sweeps through the photos, an appreciative expression growing at picture after picture of Kurt, selfies he's taken almost every morning before school.

“Wow,” Blaine says, “and I thought I was weird.”

Kurt gasps and slaps Blaine playfully on the shoulder.

“No, but this is really cool,” Blaine says. “Man, you've got a lot of ‘em.”

“You should talk,” Kurt says. “Remember, your drawer is still open. At least yours are all vintage.”

“So are some of yours. Is that…a clock?”

“Yeah. I found it at my favorite thrift store,” Kurt says, recognizing the coincidence of how that same thrift store led him here, talking about bowties with this interesting boy, whom he seems to have much in common with (if the contents of his bookcase, where he has his music library and his DVD collection displayed, can be believed, as well as the guitar on a stand in the corner), “but Martin Mascherl makes one just like it. You know, if you ever want to pick one up.”

“I just might,” Blaine says honestly. “And… is that even fabric?”

“No, it's ceramic.” Kurt smiles. He can't help it. This is the first conversation he's had in a while that doesn't make his stomach twist in knots.

Well, it does, but in a good way.

Blaine hands Kurt back his phone.

“I think you might have me beat,” Blaine laughs.

“I'll wear that mantle with pride,” Kurt says, pocketing his phone.

“You should,” Blaine says, his gaze drifting to his feet, his smile dropping along with his eyes. “But, you're right, you know. I do have his stuff - his ties, his shirts, his suits from way back when. My grandfather, he…he's my best friend. He inspires me. It just…it makes me feel more connected to him. Does that sound…I don't know…childish?”

“Not at all,” Kurt says, his mind wandering to his mother's vintage scarves that he's built his entire wardrobe around, her vanity in his bedroom, her Nikon 35mm film camera that he still uses, and her empty perfume bottle, all of which he keeps so that he can feel closer to her. “I can understand that. And hey, you wear them well.”

“Thank you,” Blaine says.

A clock in the hallway chimes, reminding them that they have more to do than talk about bowties.

“Why don't I take you to your room so you can freshen up?” Blaine offers. “We don't want to be late for dinner.”

“That would be great,” Kurt says, heading out to the hall to grab his bags. “It was a ten hour drive. I'll need to wash at least five of those hours off before I feel human again.”

“Let me guess,” Blaine says, cutting ahead to grab the heaviest of the bags, “the Jersey part of the trip?”

“Don't get me started.” Kurt picks up his camera bags. Nobody carries his babies except him, no matter how sweet and charming they are. “At least I didn't have to stop in Hackensack.”

***

“So, you're from Lima,” Devon says, ignoring the dinner in front of him and talking to Kurt. “I've been to a lot of small towns in Ohio, but I'm not sure I've ever been to Lima. That's over in Allen County, right? What do you do out there?”

“Nothing much really,” Kurt admits, picking at his Chicken Marsala. Devon was right. Lillian is an absolutely amazing cook. Kurt didn't get the chance to meet her since their food was already served when Blaine escorted him down to the dining room, freshly showered, and changed into a pair of jeans and a button-down shirt not wrinkled to hell. But Kurt is too excited to eat, so all the pieces he's cut for himself have only traveled around his plate in a circle, pushing aside the sauce. “I go to McKinley High School.”

“A public high school?” Blaine asks. Kurt nods, taking a sip of his Diet Coke. “Do you like it? Is it a good school?”

“Academically it's alright, I guess. But otherwise, it's pretty awful,” Kurt remarks.

“Are you in any clubs? Do you play any sports?” Blaine asks. From his left, at the head of the table, Kurt hears Devon chuckle over the enthusiasm of his grandson.

Is Blaine really that interested, Kurt wonders, or are Devon and Blaine so alone out here in the sticks that Kurt's life seems exciting by comparison?

If so, Kurt has nothing but pity for these poor guys.

Or was Kurt wrong in his assumption, and Devon did talk him up before he got there? But how? Devon knows nothing about him. Unless he Googled Kurt. Kurt has looked himself up on Google numerous times, and was surprised to see photos of his work, a list of competitions he's been in, awards he's won, even an old school picture of him.

He's still trying to figure out a way to trade it out for a better one. He knows nothing can be removed from the Internet permanently. That doesn't mean he won't try.

“Yeah, I'm in a few clubs,” Kurt replies. “And I used to play football.”

“Really?” Blaine and Devon say at the same time. Kurt looks down at his food and giggles.

“Yeah, well, I was placekicker for about one season, if that, but I'm too busy for sports at the moment.” A piece of chicken circles Kurt's plate as he talks. “Some weekends I work in my dad's shop. He's a mechanic, and he…he has his own shop.” Kurt's voice dips. He's not ashamed of his father's job. His dad has his own business, he owns a home. Their family is better off than a lot of people Kurt knows. It just seems strange talking about his father's auto shop here, in this multi-million dollar mansion. On the other hand, Devon and Blaine both seem like such down-to-earth people to live among such wealth and privilege. A flick of Kurt's eyes above Devon's head has Kurt looking at a genuine Matisse (Kurt knows definitively because Blaine was nice enough to introduce it to him). Devon catches Kurt's eyes and smiles, not just courteously, but with empathy. Yes, Devon would empathize. He didn't come from wealth, he made it for himself. Kurt feels his confidence returning, and he goes on. “But for a budding photographer, it's an okay place to grow up. Lots of scenic vistas and whatnot – lakes, rivers, farmland. It's good practice, but I think I've kind of outgrown it.”

“Mmm, I dare say that's going around,” Devon comments. “Blaine here is also an Ohio native, and he's chomping at the bit to leave once and for all.”

“Really?” Kurt steals a look at Blaine, who's been smiling at him through most of their meal. Kurt can't deny that he's noticed, but he's tried not to make it obvious.

“Yup,” Devon answers for him. “Westerville, born and raised.”

“Westerville?” Kurt says. “I've gone there a few times.”

“You have?” Blaine asks, lighting up like he discovered that he and Kurt are actually long lost cousins.

“Yes. Inniswood Metro Gardens. I spent a whole weekend photographing there. And I got some great shots of the turkeys at Blendon Woods Park. Oh, and I took some pictures on the campus at a prep school out that way, but I don't remember the name.” Kurt raises his eyes to the ceiling as he tries to remember. He can see the place clearly in his mind – the ivy-covered buildings, the boys in their blue blazers and grey slacks, and one particular entryway, painted white, with a large dome skylight, and a black scrolled-iron railing running down the length of a winding staircase, a spot Kurt thought would be ideal for wedding photographs - but he can't seem to dig up the name. “Dearling? Delson? Dalting?”

“Dalton?” Blaine asks hopefully.

“Yeah,” Kurt says. “I think that's it. You know it?”

“Know it? I've been living there the past two-and-a-half years.”

“Wow,” Devon says. “Small world, hmm? And I'm sure you've told Kurt about your own interest in photography, Blaine?”

“I started to,” Blaine answers.

“He's shown me some of his stuff,” Kurt elaborates. “He's done a lot of great Photoshop work. I'm really envious. I don't have nearly enough in my repertoire. My career counselor thinks I might need to expand on some of my abilities in that arena.”

“I could help you with that if you'd like…while you're here,” Blaine offers.

“I'd like that,” Kurt says, looking up at Blaine through his lashes. He might be flirting. He hasn't decided. He can't seem to help that, either. Blaine makes it so easy.

“We would love to see your photographs, Kurt,” Devon says. “Did you bring any of your work with you?”

“I did,” Kurt says, “but it's still packed.”

“Maybe tomorrow, when you're more settled, you can treat us to a private viewing.”

Kurt nods. “Definitely.”

A lull follows the conversation as the three take a second to tuck into their neglected food, the chicken colder than it was when it was served. But Blaine doesn't want the conversation to end. He doesn't want to eat in silence while Kurt's there with them. Kurt, who lives only hours away from his school, who is interested in photography as much as he is, and who came all the way out there, ten whole hours, to spend spring break with them. Blaine wants to listen to whatever Kurt has to tell them, even if it's a minute-by-minute replay of everything he did that day.

“What about your mother?” Blaine asks. “You said your father owns a shop, but you didn't tell us what your mother does.”

“My mother was a photographer, too,” Kurt says, picking up the cloth napkin from his lap and wiping his mouth. “An amazing photographer. She wanted to be a fashion photographer, but there's not much fashion to photograph where we're from. But she always had a camera with her, wherever she went, and she took pictures of everything. I always thought I got my talent from her, but my dad says my love of photography had nothing to do with her. I picked up a camera all on my own when I was about 18-months-old, and they couldn't get it away from me.”

“Really?” Blaine tries to imagine a toddler Kurt, balancing a heavy camera in his chubby arms, waddling and snapping pictures of the couch arm, the end table, and then the floor as he toppled over.

“Yeah,” Kurt laughs, “but I'm not sure I believe him.”

“So, have your mother's photographs been shown anywhere I might have seen them?” Blaine asks. “Magazines? Or galleries? I would love to see her work.”

Kurt looks down at the red potato he has speared on the tines of his fork.

“Unfortunately, no,” Kurt says, twisting his fork until the potato splits in half. “She passed away when I was eight.”

“Oh,” Blaine says, his fork slipping from his fingers. “Oh, I'm…I'm sorry.”

Devon wipes his mouth. “You're a handsome young man,” he interjects, quickly changing subjects. “Isn't he, Blaine? Isn't Kurt a handsome young man?”

Blaine's face turns bright red in a second, and he looks down at his plate.

“Uh…uh…” Blaine chuckles nervously, stammering over his tongue, and Kurt laughs.

“You must be beating boys off with a stick,” Devon continues as the flush on Blaine's face creeps up to cover his ears.

“Not exactly,” Kurt admits. “But I think that's more the fault of living in Lima, Ohio, than anything to do with me.”

Devon laughs out loud, slapping a hand on the table, making the silverware around the plates jump. “Good for you, Kurt,” he says, sounding impressed. “But wait till you get to New York. Out in the city, you will definitely have your dance card full.”

“You sound like our next door neighbor,” Kurt says, blushing himself. “Mrs. DeGrasso. She says that all the time…except…about girls.”

Devon nods in a sympathetic way. “Assumptions are a difficult thing to live with,” he says. “Unfortunately, they're all around, and as long as straights make up the majority, you'll be straight until proven guilty.”

Kurt doesn't have a response for that. He's never heard it put that way before, but it's extremely fitting.

“Is there someone special?” Devon asks. “Or are you focusing on your studies and letting the universe decide when to toss Mr. Right into your path?”

“I think…” Kurt starts, turning away from Blaine when he feels his hazel eyes wait with interest for his answer, “I'm going to focus on me for now, and let love come in its own time. There's so many things I want to do, and high school…it's too early for me to want to meet someone yet. And believe me, there's no one in Lima I'd want to be romantically involved with anyway.”

That isn't entirely the truth, but he doesn't want to go in to the intricacies of how he had had a flash-in-the-pan infatuation with the boy who is now dating his best friend and may someday become his stepbrother. It sounds too much like a soap opera to even be believable.

Kurt's eyes dart to Blaine's face, astonished to see that his answer to Devon's question hasn't deterred the look of admiration in Blaine's expression any.

He's also astonished to discover that, even though he was being honest about waiting to meet someone, he's relieved.

Devon takes a deep breath, and it culls a heavy silence, one that calls Kurt and Blaine's attention as if Devon had announced that he was about to make a speech.

“The first person I fell in love with…I was just a boy in high school, a little younger than the two of you. We went to the same school, had most of our classes together.” Devon pauses. He sighs, his eyes distant, looking far beyond Kurt and Blaine, beyond the room they're in, into the past where this boy lives vibrantly in Devon's memory. “His name was Michael. He was a brilliant boy, into science and math, and on his own, he studied topics that most kids our age wouldn't touch unless forced – physics, calculus, chemistry. He was athletic, too. He played soccer, golf, tennis. He was the only freshman on the varsity baseball team. He was kind and sweet and shy…and beautiful. So, so beautiful.” Devon blinks his eyes but he doesn't come back from his nostalgia, not yet, and Kurt holds his breath, not wanting to do anything to shatter the memory. “Back then, as you might have guessed, words like homosexual and gay weren't used the way they are now. In fact, they were used more between my straight friends as insults than they were for any other reason. I'm not saying that's still not the way, but…it was more that way when I was younger, and more dangerous. I know my friends didn't have a care about it. It didn't mean the same to them as it did to me. But I did anything to make sure not a single one of my gang ever thought I was gay.” Blaine and Kurt, both with forks paused so they can listen, nod, with similar looks of understanding on their faces. “To be honest,” Devon says with a small smile, “I never much liked the word gay or queer. I kind of always preferred the word faggot.”

“Grandpa!” Blaine exclaims, sounding mortified.

Kurt is, too, but he's also too curious to let the subject drop.

“Why is that, Mr. Anderson?”

“Because it has power behind it,” Devon says, shaking a fist in the air for emphasis. “As bad as it is, when you heard someone throw that word around, you straightened up and you listened, because you knew something bad was going to go down. The point is, it attracted attention – serious attention. And that's what we needed. We needed people to listen to us. We needed our parents, our teachers, our doctors, our pastors to know that this was important. Who we were was important, and ignoring us or beating us or sending us away wasn't going to change who we were. If anything, it was killing us…slowly.”

There's strength in Devon's words, in his voice, but they make Kurt feel weak. Kurt has spent much time over the last few years watching the world change, being a part of that change, being proud of it and what it means for the future. But the way Devon felt decades ago is the same way Kurt has felt, days ago, in some ways.

How can so much change, and yet not much be all that different?

“So, what happened between you and that boy?” Kurt asks. “Did you tell him how you felt?”

Blaine looks stunned, maybe even a little upset. Kurt can tell that Blaine hasn't heard a word of this story before. Kurt feels guilty that this revelation, which probably should have been shared between Devon and his grandson first, was prompted by Kurt's presence.

“He was deeper in the closet than I was back then,” Devon says. “We talked a lot in private, mostly at his house. His father worked and his mother volunteered with the Rotary Club, so no one was ever around. My parents, well…” Devon looks past Blaine, right at Kurt. “You know,” he says quietly. Kurt nods. He does know. He read all about what Devon's parents were like when Devon was a teenager, questioning himself and exploring his sexuality, discovering what it meant to be gay. But Blaine looks between the two of them, confused, like Kurt and his grandfather are speaking a secret language that Blaine thought for sure he would know, too. “We discussed our feelings, our fears, what we wanted for the future if we could have whatever we wanted. I think he was in love with me, too, but maybe just because I was the only other gay kid he knew. I wanted to kiss him…God, I wanted to kiss him so badly, but he wasn't ready for that.” Devon picks up his napkin from his lap and folds it, stalling for time, arranging his thoughts so they wouldn't sound as bad out loud as they did in his head. “I pushed too hard,” he says, leaving his folded napkin a perfect rectangle by the side of his plate. “I tried to convince him to come out. I said we could do it together. Start some kind of a revolution. I was a bit naïve back then, and more than a bit high-strung. I thought that we could make a difference, that we could prompt some kind of uprising, do it on our own. He was scared, said he didn't know what would happen to us if anybody knew. I told him to start out small – tell his parents first, see how that felt.” Devon stops, his mouth locked around his next sentence, a tremor traveling through his chin. “I don't know what happened after I left Michael's house that day,” Devon says, his voice almost a whisper. “I didn't think he would actually say anything. I was sure he was going to wait. But he came to school the next day with the biggest shiner I'd ever seen, and a limp in his left leg, like someone had kicked out his knee. I tried to get him alone and ask him what happened, but…he wouldn't even look at me.” Devon takes a deep breath, like it's the first one he's taken since he started to tell this story. “Three days later, he joined ROTC. Because of his grades and sports and everything, he got early entrance into the Army. I joined the Army, too, after high school. Not because of him, but because of…reasons…” Blaine looks at Kurt to see if Kurt has a clue what his grandfather's talking about – a clue that Blaine doesn't seem to have - but Kurt's expression is blank, full of sorrow more than recognition. “I thought I might run in to him at some point. I guess I underestimated exactly how large the Army actually was. I never saw him again.” Devon shrugs half-heartedly. “I did one of those D.O.J. people searches decades later, kind of like you did, Kurt, and I found out he died a few years after he enlisted. I don't know how. To be honest, I really didn't dig too far into it after that. There are so many reasons why a young gay man like him – insecure, questioning, angry - could have died back then, I didn't want to know.”

Kurt and Blaine stare at Devon in awe as Devon returns to his meal. He takes one more bite before he crosses his fork and knife over his plate of unfinished food and pushes it away.

The dining room becomes uncomfortably silent. If someone dropped a pin, or a glass, or a plate, the noise would be swallowed up by the tension surrounding them – a tension born from this admission of painful guilt that Devon must have carried around, burdened with for years. If confessing it made him feel lighter, which Kurt sincerely hopes it did, it weighed down everything else. Even the air feels a little too heavy to breathe.

Not one to enjoy silence, any silence, Blaine asks Kurt a question about photography classes at McKinley, and conversation takes off again. The trio sticks to shallow subjects after Devon's revelation. Blaine tells Kurt about the things he wants to show him while he's in Great Neck. Devon lays out his schedule, letting Kurt pick what he'd like to sit in on (Tai Chi, pottery class, hydrotherapy, yoga, etc.) since Kurt had expressed an interest in seeing how Devon lives his life now, years after his career in the limelight and the high-profile life that went along with it were over.

“You have free reign of the place, Kurt,” Devon says, pushing out his chair and standing with a slight but noticeable amount of difficulty. “Photograph whatever you want, go wherever you wish, swim in the pool, play the grand piano, raid the fridge - you're our guest. Make yourself at home.”

“Thank you, Mr. Anderson,” Kurt says, standing from the table as well.

Devon looks at Kurt and scrunches his nose.

“Now, you're going to have to call me Devon if you and I are going to stay close friends,” Devon says. “Otherwise, we'll just be acquaintances, and I don't want that.”

Kurt starts to shake his head, but Devon shoots Kurt a stern(ish) glare.

“Alright, Devon,” Kurt concedes.

Devon lightens up and gives him a wink, much the way Blaine did, the similarities between them spectacular despite the gap in years that separates them.

At least Blaine has the security of knowing that he will grow to be a good-looking older man.

“Good night, boys,” Devon says. “Sleep tight. I'll see you both in the morning.” He walks toward the staircase, then stops for a moment. To Kurt, it looks like he's catching his breath, but he turns to face the two boys. His eyes drift from Blaine's face to Kurt's. “Thank you,” he says. “Thank you for coming.”

“You're welcome,” Kurt says.

Those words seem to release a note of finality in the air. It strikes Kurt like a dissonant chord, unresolvable in any way that Kurt sees. Blaine feels it, too, because he hurries over to his grandfather before he can start up the stairs.

“Good night, Grandpa,” Blaine says, giving his grandfather a hug. Devon shuts his eyes and squeezes Blaine back, whispering in his grandson's ear, something Kurt doesn't hear. Devon pats Blaine on the shoulder, then turns and walks away, up the stairs to his bedroom.

The boys watch him go, and like some unspoken rule, they wait until he reaches the top step and turns down the hall before they start talking again.

“Should we clean up?” Kurt asks, looking at three plates of half-eaten food, though it seems that Devon ate the least out of all of them.

“Lillian will take care of those,” Blaine says, picking up his napkin, then putting it down again in the same spot, as if debating whether to clear those away.

“Are you sure?” Kurt asks, hovering near his place setting to see if Blaine changes his mind.

“Yeah,” Blaine says. “She actually gets a little testy when we mess with the dishes. She's kind of…particular.”

“Okay,” Kurt says, not quite convinced that leaving the dirty dishes on the table is the correct course of action. But, then again, this isn't his house. Blaine knows the way things go here. Kurt doesn't. “If you say so.”

“I do,” Blaine says. He makes a gesture toward the staircase, presenting Kurt with a gallant half-bow. “Shall I walk you to your room?”

Kurt looks Blaine over, posed in a way that could be utterly ridiculous if it wasn't him, Blaine Anderson, a boy kindled from another time.

“Sure,” Kurt says, rolling his eyes fondly. “Why not?”

“After you,” Blaine says.

Kurt walks up the stairs ahead of Blaine. This time around, Blaine doesn't make small talk, and Kurt kind of wonders why that is. It feels odd to have this boy walk him upstairs, in essence, to his bedroom, especially since there's this bizarre instant spark between them. It doesn't have anything to do with attraction necessarily. It's just there. Kurt feels it with Devon, too. It might have something to do with the journal; it might not. But Kurt doesn't remember having this with anyone, not even his best friends. People have always had to earn his friendship. He has no problem being alone when they don't. Back in Lima, Kurt keeps to a small band of close friends. Outside of those eight or so people that he's suffered through endless bullying, dumpster tosses, and Slushie facials with, he doesn't make friends too easily. It's not that he keeps any walls up. He just has a habit of making himself unavailable. He doesn't need an entourage for validation – just a few people who know what it's like to be the bottom totem on the pole.

But Blaine Devon Anderson is definitely not a low totem on any pole, and has probably never seen the business end of a Slushie in his life. Yeah, they share a lot of the same interests, but other than that, he and Blaine don't fit in the same size shoes.

So how is Blaine getting to Kurt so quickly?

Is Kurt projecting? Is he looking at Blaine and seeing Devon – all those words he read, all those feelings, his struggle that resonates with Kurt so deeply?

If so, these next few days may prove to be more complicated than Kurt thought. Maybe it would be best if he sheared his focus and blocked Blaine out. Kept him at a distance. Kurt has a goal he's working toward, and he doesn't need any distractions, nobody getting in his way, not this late in the game, when time is running short.

Yes, Kurt thinks. It's probably best to cut ties now, and restrict his contact to Devon. If he explains that to Devon, Kurt's sure he'll understand. Maybe Devon could even talk to Blaine, tell him to give Kurt this one week alone with his grandfather.

Or Kurt could just grow a pair and tell Blaine himself. Now seems like the perfect time, while they're alone and Kurt's bags are still packed. He could move to a different room of the house tonight. It shouldn't be a problem at all.

Kurt turns his head to get a look at the boy following him – hazel eyes darkening in the changing light from the dining room to the upper level, that smile that tells Kurt that he's thinking more than he's telling. Blaine looks up at Kurt and meets his gaze, his smile growing wider, more mysterious.

That debonair smile of Blaine's might be just a tiny bit heart stopping.

Okay, Kurt thinks. Well, that's not happening.

And not because he can't tell Blaine to give him space. He doesn't want to keep Blaine at a distance. He wants to let him in, even if they only end up knowing one another for a week and never see each other again.

Kurt gets the feeling that Blaine is a boy worth knowing.

They slow their steps as they arrive at Kurt's door, an awkward pause awaiting them as soon as they stop walking.

“I guess I'll see you in the morning,” Blaine says.

“Yeah,” Kurt says. “I guess you will.”

Kurt waits to see if Blaine will say something more.

It seems Blaine is waiting for that, too. Or just some excuse, any excuse, to keep talking.

“It's been kind of a long day,” Kurt adds, “and I should probably get to bed before I fall asleep standing.”

“Yeah,” Blaine nods. Again, he looks like he might not move, but Kurt reaches for the doorknob beside him and Blaine gets the hint. “Well, good night.”

Kurt opens the door to the bedroom he chose to stay in, the bedroom directly adjacent to Blaine's, sharing the wall right behind the headboard to the bed, and walks inside. As he shuts the door, he sees Blaine standing in the hallway, waving at him, not ready to leave Kurt for the night.

Kurt doesn't want to admit that he feels the same way. He can see himself staying up all night long talking to Blaine.

He can also see himself passing out inside the doorway and waking up with the grain from the hardwood floor imprinted on his face.

Kurt starts opening his luggage, picking out his outfit for tomorrow and hanging it in the empty closet, then pulling out a t-shirt and a pair of flannel pants to sleep in. A second later, Kurt hears Blaine rustling around in his room, opening his dresser drawers, moving a chair…singing. Kurt stops what he's doing and listens. Blaine is half-singing/half-humming a tune that sounds familiar, but it's muffled, and Kurt doesn't recognize it. If he could hear it better, maybe he could harmonize. Or would that be creepy? Possibly, but Kurt's not sure that he cares.

With Blaine's voice weaving in through the connecting wall, Kurt climbs under the covers and pulls out his journal. He jots down as much of Devon's story as he can remember, but as he reads back over what he's written, he curses himself for not bringing a voice recorder. He's not doing Devon's story justice. He can't bring the words to life the way Devon did. Maybe it's years of acting under his belt, or the simple fact that he lived it. The story belongs to him. The life he gives it is his own.

Kurt will never have that until he starts writing his own story.

So maybe it's weaker than he'd hoped, but this is only the first night, the first story. There will be more. And at least he'll be photographing Devon. Those pictures, along with what he can remember of Devon's story, will give others a glimpse of it. That might be more important than winning the scholarship (though winning the scholarship definitely isn't going to hurt).

Kurt closes his journal when his writing ceases to be legible, and turns off the light beside the bed, the chain pull on the vintage lamp making an audible “click-clack”.

In the room next door, Blaine stops singing.

“Good night, Kurt.” Blaine's voice comes through the wall right by Kurt's ear, and Kurt smiles.

“Good night, Blaine,” Kurt says. “Sleep tight.” With the drive and dinner and Devon and Blaine swirling together in his head, Kurt has no idea how he's going to go to sleep.

Until he shuts his eyes and he falls right out.