Driving with Kurt turns into a major distraction for Blaine as the blue-eyed puppet stares up at the sky through the open window and sighs every five seconds.

“Oh, Blaine” - Kurt closes his eyes against the wind as the minivan breezes down the highway - “it's nothing like I remember it.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” Blaine asks, sneaking a peek at the puppet pulling his head in from the open window.

Kurt presses the button to close it, shutting it half way, then presses it again, lowering it an inch. He has developed a fascination with the buttons and switches that control things in the van – the door locks, the window switch, the seat adjuster. It had been adorable to watch Kurt spend the first five minutes of their trip swaying back and forth and up and down as he adjusted and re-adjusted his seat over and over.

“Both,” Kurt concludes after a pause. “I mean, I'm all for progress, and highways and tall buildings are a part of human civilization moving forward, but I don't know …” He gazes out at the edge of the highway, where store after store and building after building blurs by. “There's just something to be said about driving slowly down a dirt road and hearing the gravel underneath the tires, the birds flying overhead, seeing houses surrounded by green grass, cows grazing, and a chicken coop in the front yard, white picket fences, laundry hanging from a line …” Kurt sighs again, probably his hundredth sigh in the last half hour. But it's peaceful, and Blaine knows he'll never get tired of it. “I think I'm just an old-fashioned, silly romantic. The world has changed so much since I last saw it. I think I'm going to spend a lot of time playing catch up.”

Blaine wants to reassure Kurt that playing catch up in this new time period will be easy, but he bites his lip to stop himself. It won't be easy for Kurt. Blaine knows it. And patronizing Kurt won't change that. He comes up with something instead that he hopes will mean more to Kurt, give him something more substantial to hold on to.

“However long it takes,” he says, “I'll be here to help you.”

Kurt's glass eyes reflect the sunlight and blue sky overhead, making them look like they're swimming with unshed tears. “Really?”

Blaine smiles. “I promise.”

As they turn onto Harbor Drive, Blaine's eyes shift periodically to Kurt's face, trying to gauge his reaction to returning to the house where he had been trapped for so long. But as they approach the old Victorian, Kurt settles back against the headrest and closes his eyes.

Blaine doesn't ask. He understands.

Kurt isn't ready to see it.

Gary's U-Haul is parked by the curb out front. Standing beside it are Gary and two other men he brought with him to help. The first guy, Ted, Blaine knows. He's a few years older than Blaine and studying occupational therapy at San Diego State University. Ted met Gary years ago when Ted was on the search for a porcelain doll for his mother for her birthday. It turned out that authenticating vintage dolls was a hidden hobby of Ted's, and the day he walked into Gary's shop, he rescued Gary from spending a fortune on dolls that turned out to be incredibly well-made counterfeits.

The other gentleman – an older man – Blaine doesn't recognize. He's standing off on his own reading a hefty, leather-bound book, while Gary and Ted talk over their game plan for the rest of the toys in the house. This man couldn't be any more different from Gary and Ted if he tried. Where the other two men are wearing polo shirts and jeans, this older man is wearing a three-piece suit. He's trim and tall, with generous flecks of silver interspersed in his stark black hair. Narrow reading glasses sit perched at the tip of his long, thin nose. His lips move as he reads, ignoring the other two men and their constant jabber.

From the looks of things, only Gary and his crew have arrived so far, which means everyone else would be showing up later on, while Blaine is inside the house and Kurt outside. Blaine hadn't anticipated that. Usually everyone on the renovation team gets to a project house early. He doesn't want anyone bothering Kurt when they arrive.

Blaine leans over to Kurt's seat. “Okay, I'm going to be a couple of hours, but I'll be in and out, so I'll check in on you to make sure you're alright.”

Kurt doesn't open his eyes but he smiles, turning his face in the direction of Blaine's voice. “Oh, Blaine, you are a gentleman. But don't worry too much about me. I'm sure I'll be fine.”

Blaine looks at Kurt's face, serene and sparkling in the daylight. He's staring, he knows it, but he can't help it. Kurt is such an attractive puppet. He has such a kind and honest face. There are many compliments Blaine could give to Kurt in that regard that, unfortunately, wouldn't be compliments at all. Blaine could say that Kurt is beautiful, which he is, but that might be more a comment on the masterful way he was made, and therefore a compliment to Andrew's workmanship. Blaine would rather cut out his tongue than compliment that monster. Blaine could say that Kurt is handsome, as he was in all of those black and white photographs Blaine saw, but that would be a compliment to the person he was.

A person who doesn't entirely exist anymore.

Whoever Kurt is, whatever he is, whatever miracle brought him to be, Blaine adores him - shamelessly so.

Of all the crazy, outlandish, off-the-wall things that could happen to Blaine, he has a thing for a puppet.

Go figure.

“Blaine?” Kurt whispers, his smile growing wider. “Are you planning on leaving anytime soon, or are you going to stare at me all day?”

Blaine's cheeks go from tan to scarlet in award-winning time.

“I was … I was just wondering … uh …” He clears his throat “… if you're going to be okay sitting here, or if you need a book to read or something.”

Blaine clamps his jaw shut when he remembers the only things he has in the van to read are the journals in the trunk.

“I'm fine,” Kurt assures him, “except …”

Uh-oh … he does want to read. Shit!

“Except …” Blaine repeats anxiously.

“If you can maybe find me some paper and a pencil? I would like to sketch.”

“Sketch?” Blaine mentally breathes a sigh of relief.

“Yes. I design clothes.” Kurt sounds contrite, like he's apologizing for this thing that he enjoys, and Blaine longs to ask him who might have given him the impression that designing clothes was a bad thing. Kurt's mother doesn't sound like the type to discourage her son from a hobby like sewing, and Andrew, for all his faults, included a sewing machine in Kurt's room, so it couldn't have been him.

“Of course,” Blaine says, opening his door. “I'm sure I can dig some up. Give me a moment.”

“Mm-hmm.” Kurt hums as he reaches for the button to recline the seat. “Take your time.”

Blaine hops out and shuts the door behind him. Cheers and applause go up from Gary and Ted, who wave his way, hooting and hollering like the over-excited fools they are. Blaine smiles and waves back, heading for his trunk.

“I'll open up the house in a second,” he calls out, knowing that Gary is drooling to get his hands on the rest of those toys. Blaine admires Gary really. He's living his dream - he owns his own business, makes enough to support himself in an expensive city like San Diego, and most importantly, he enjoys what he does.

If Blaine can achieve half of that, he'll consider himself fortunate.

Blaine knows he has a notebook somewhere in the trunk, but with all of the things he's packed and unpacked in the last few days, he doesn't know where it ended up. He rustles through the usual automotive junk – first aid kit, jumper cables, a bottle of Armor All. He comes across a roll of paper towels and a half used bottle of Windex that he doesn't remember ever seeing , but there it is, and it reminds him of the posters hanging in the kitchen – the ones with dust caked on so thick Blaine couldn't see through it. He pulls them out, keeping a hold of them while he keeps looking. Underneath the backseat he finds his notebook, with a pencil shoved inside the spiral rings. He grabs it along with the three journals, hiding them strategically between his body and the cleaning supplies. He closes the trunk and walks over to Kurt's window.

“Here you go,” he says, laying the notebook on the lap of the resting puppet.

“Thank you, Blaine,” Kurt says with eyes still closed. “Now go. I'll be fine. I promise.” And he blows Blaine a kiss.

Blaine feels it land against his cheek as if it were a real, palpable thing.

“Alright, Kurt,” Blaine says, noticing how Kurt's smile grows when he says his name.

Blaine heads to the house, gesturing to the other men with one wide wave. All three men look at Blaine's van as they pass. Though none of them are close enough to peek inside and see Kurt stretched out in the front seat with his eyes shut, they must have caught a glimpse of him because he's the first thing Gary mentions as Blaine starts unlocking the house.

“So, you're driving around with them, Blaine?” he asks, sounding disturbed but amused by Blaine's choice of company. “Is this a legitimate obsession, or just an attempt to defraud your way into the carpool lane?”

Blaine decides not to argue with Gary, knowing he's mainly teasing him.

“You know, Gary,” Blaine says, sticking a key into the front door, “as an adult man who plays with dolls, I would think that you, of all people, might understand.”

“Wait,” Ted says. “You guys aren't kidding, are you? You brought the puppet with you, Blaine!?”

Blaine turns and shoots Gary an accusing glance as the door swings open and he leads the trio inside.

“You told him?”

“I'm sorry, Blaine,” Gary says, not sounding sorry at all. “It just … came up.”

“What in the world were you guys talking about that the subject of my puppets came up in conversation?” Blaine props the door open, then starts pulling the drapes.

“Cheeseburgers,” both men answer in unison, leaving Blaine to shake his head.

“You took one of the puppets?” the older man sneers, speaking for the first time.

“Blaine” - Gary steps in before a potential argument breaks out - “this is Alex Norton. He specializes in Vaudeville culture, and he's very interested in the puppets.”

“I purchased two of the puppets,” Blaine clarifies to the man staring him down through the wafer thin lenses of his spectacles, “from my brother, who owns the house and everything in it.”

“So, you purchased them without knowing what they're worth?” The man's nostrils flare with contained anger.

“I paid quite a bit for them,” Blaine says in his defense, swallowing a comment about the loss of his paycheck. “I'm pretty sure my brother got what they're worth.”

“Like I said,” Gary interrupts, “he didn't buy any of the franchised puppets, just two handmade puppets that were trashed in the basement.”

“Made by the original owner of the house, yes?” Alex over-enunciates each word, unnecessarily in Blaine's opinion. “Andrew Smythe?”

Blaine bristles at the name. “What difference does that make?”

“That makes the puppets of historical significance.” Alex straightens, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Therefore, I will need to see the puppets.” Alex stares at Blaine, waiting to be lead out to his van, Blaine assumes.

“No,” Blaine says.

“No?” Alex repeats contemptuously, his glasses beginning to slide their way back down his nose.

“No.” Blaine stands firm. “You are free to see any puppet in the house, but those two are my personal property. They're not available for you to see.”

“They are the only existing examples of Andrew Smythe's attempts to make human-sized puppets,” Alex argues, leaning in in an attempt to intimidate him.

“Too bad,” Blaine says. “You can't see them.”

Alex stares at Blaine and Blaine stares back, the air between them electric, waiting for a spark to set it off.

“Okay, guys,” Ted intercedes, hoping to diffuse the tension, “we have a lot of work to do. If Blaine doesn't want to show off his puppets, he doesn't have to.”

Alex's upper lip curls, baring his teeth. He knows he's lost, but his eyes darken nonetheless.

“Fine,” he says, the word a growl inside his locked jaw. He stands up straight, fixes his glasses on his nose again, and walks off as if he knows where he's going.

Blaine watches him carefully, concerned with how comfortable he seems in the house.

“I apologize about that,” Gary says. “He's … really passionate about his work.”

“Apparently,” Blaine says, thankful that Kurt is safe in the minivan outside, and that even Sebastian is securely locked up in the beach house.

“Come on.” Gary claps Blaine on the back as he eyes the man heading for the hallway. “Let's get to work so I can get these glorious tin toys back to my shop.”

Blaine peeks out the window to make sure Kurt can't be seen, then heads off down the hallway himself. He holds his head high as he passes Alex on the way to the dining room, barely giving the man any berth as he hustles by. Alex grumbles something beneath his breath, but Blaine doesn't pay enough attention to pick up the remark. He heads straight for the posters hanging on the dining room walls and begins spraying the glass with Windex. He puts his books and supplies on the table and waits as the blue liquid cuts through years of grease and grime, spreading through the muck like fingernails scraping it off. He sprays each poster frame a few more times before he starts tearing paper towels from the roll and wiping, cleaning the glass completely before he steps back and takes a good look at them.

He was right in assuming they were theater posters – twenty in all, each one hung in order showing the rise and fall of “The Great” (a superlative he adds in his head with a sarcastic snarl) Andrew Smythe. The poster on the far left starts with Andrew's act listed at the bottom in the tiniest type conceivable. As time progresses, Andrew's listing on the bill rises. His act becomes ‘Andrew and Sons', written in larger and larger typeface until bam! There he is - his face big as life. And even though his act is still titled ‘Andrew and Sons', the picture on the poster is of him alone with a puppet sitting on his lap – Sammy, more than likely. A couple more posters have his face on them, but then a new face takes its place and his act, now listed as ‘The Great Andrew Smythe', shrinks back down the list of names until it's barely legible.

“Ah. The demise of The Great Andrew Smythe,” a nasally voice echoes through the room. “Tragic.”

“Yes,” Blaine says, “if you believe Andrew Smythe was great.”

Alex tilts his head and stares at Blaine aghast.

“He was one of the greatest performers of his time.”

“Maybe, but he was a crap father.”

Alex jerks back, scrunching his nose as if he'd smelled something offensive when Blaine opened his mouth. “How could you possibly know that?”

Blaine shrugs, crossing his arms over his chest, his eyes flicking subconsciously to the journals on the table. “I've been doing research.”

“Well, did your research tell you that being a good parent wasn't a pre-requisite for being an excellent performer? Nobody in particular cared how he treated his children.”

Alex makes this statement with such an absence of emotion that it feels like a slap in the face.

“To be perfectly honest, I couldn't care less about Andrew Smythe or his precious act.”

“And yet you apparently spent a considerable amount of money to purchase two of his rarest puppets, which are now so important to you that you won't let anyone see them.”

“That's my business,” Blaine says, wanting a quick end to this so he can find a quiet spot and start reading the journals.

“And what about these posters?” Alex asks, pointing to the walls. “Are they to become victims of your indiscernible personal collecting habits, too?”

“No. They're being donated to the San Diego Historical Society for their exhibit on Vaudeville,” Blaine says with a sardonic twist to his lips. “I hear it's excellent. Very informative. You should go check it out.” Now would be nice, he thinks. He picks the journals up off the table. Alex watches him, zeroing in on the books in Blaine's hands as if he recognizes them.

“What are those?” he asks, reaching out a hand like he's planning to grab them away, but Blaine pulls them towards his chest.

“Homework,” Blaine answers sharply as he brushes past, heading down the hallway and back toward the living room. He decides to plant himself next to the living room window and wait for the other members of the team to arrive. With Alex in the house, Blaine needs to keep an eye on Kurt. He can't see Kurt from the window because the puppet is lying back in his seat, but Blaine's not taking the chance of Alex slipping out unseen and harassing him.

He leans his head against the glass and looks at the journals, trying to decide where he wants to start first. Figuring that going in order will be less confusing in the long run, he opens the journal dated 1924.

March 5 -

Dear Margaret –

Our little nine-year-old is quite the recluse. He also has one hell of a left hook, and because of that we are no longer with the Henderson and Co. traveling show. That's alright, though. I always thought they were stealing from the till, anyhow. So what if it took their little bastard Billy getting a black eye for us to leave that roadside freak show? I know that traveling can be hard on Sebastian, but I think it's just because he misses you that he acts out this way. He needs a friend. Hopefully we can glom on to another traveling show that has kids down the line. Who knows what will come our way? I love you and miss you always.

July 6 –

Dear Margaret –

I think I might have found the solution to the problem with our Sebastian … and his name is Kurt Hummel. We just finished a show in Columbus, and on our way through Lima, we found him. Well, Sebastian found him. He's not much more than a slip of a boy, with the thickest head of brown hair you've ever seen, but he's clean and polite and has a voice like an angel. If I didn't know better, I would say that Sebby was quite taken with him. He was probably just blown away by this kid's talent like I was. But there's something different about this boy. He's special – not only his voice, but the way he behaves, as if performing isn't something he does, it's something he is. I'm hoping that his father will let the boy come with us. I introduced myself, told him my piece, but the man became suspicious as all get out. I could just let the matter be, but I really think having Kurt in our act would be a God send. Wish us luck, Margaret.

July 30 –

Dear Margaret -

By golly, it worked. My sweet new acquisition has tamed your unruly son. The two rug-rats are thick as thieves. It's almost like having you back here with us, Maggy. He cooks, he cleans, he sings all the time. From morning to evening, he fills the house with music. I feel bad for his papa though - losing a wife and now a son - but I promised the man I'd raise his son proper. Maybe with his talent in the mix we'll finally make it to Europe like we always planned. Can't you just picture it, Maggy? Headlining in Paris?

“Hey, Blaine,” Gary calls, his arms wrapped around a box filled with carefully wrapped metal toys, “aren't you supposed to be filming us or something?”

Blaine doesn't look up from the journal when he reaches a hand into the pocket of his pants and pulls out his webcam. He switches it on and points it in Gary's general direction. Gary chuckles.

“You know, Cooper's going to be pissed,” Gary says, adjusting the box in his arms and heading for the door.

“Yeah, well …” Blaine lets the comment die off as he closes the first journal and opens the second one.

March 14 –

Dear Margaret -

Boy, that Kurt is sharp as a pin. Every day he spends with us, I learn something new. Here he's been with us for almost a year and I didn't know he spoke French. Says his mom taught him when he was little. She must have been one hell of a woman, just like you, Maggy.

August 21 -

Dear Margaret -

I was a little worried taking Kurt on that he'd be sort of … delicate. You'd understand if you saw him. But he's no nancy, I'll tell you that. Kurt and Seb got themselves into one heck of a tussle the other day – the two of them against four older boys, all of them a foot taller, and boy oh boy, did Kurt lick ‘em good. Of course, I told them that I wouldn't stand by fighting, not while we're trying to make a respectable name for ourselves in the higher paying houses in town. And I disciplined them. I didn't lay a hand on Kurt. It don't feel right giving a hiding to another man's son and besides, I'm pretty sure it was Sebastian's mouth that got them into all that trouble, so he got a few extra lashings with the belt to teach him. But you would have been so proud to see that boy handle himself.

Blaine winces as he reads. He knows that Kurt, Sebastian, and Andrew lived during another era, in almost a completely different world. The twenties erupted in the middle of a turbulent time in American history, but that's no excuse for the way Andrew treated his son – or the fact that he replaced him.

Blaine switches to the last journal – 1928. He does the math – if Sebastian was 10 in 1924, he'd be around 14 in 1928.

February 22 –

Dear Margaret -

Those two boys are inseparable. They go everywhere together, and they're so similar, they could pass for brothers. So I call the act ‘Andrew and Sons' now. It's worked out well for us so far. The burlesque houses hire us for their matinees. It's good to have a family act to offset the bawdier performances. With our name on the billboards, it keeps the Fuzz off their backs and we get a higher percentage of the pot.

Blaine skims through a few entries, stopping off and on when real life intervenes. He's interrupted first by a phone call from the storage company, rescheduling again for the following day, and then by Alex when he boldly tries to read over Blaine's shoulder. Gary swoops in and rescues Blaine by telling the dreadful man that he and Ted are ready to pack up the puppets and they need his help with the values. Alex gives Blaine a stern glare before he hobbles off after Gary and Ted.

Blaine turns to the back of the book, trying to find an entry that he saw earlier and thought looked promising.

October 15 –

Dear Margaret –

I wish you were here. It was the darndest thing. I went out to the shed behind the house and saw Sebastian kissing Kurt. It wasn't brotherly nor friendly neither. It was a real, honest-to-God kiss. I'm not surprised with Kurt. I kind of suspected that his tastes tilted that way, so that doesn't bother me. He's a smart boy, and if that makes him happy, then so be it, but not Sebastian. I'm not raising a cake-eater. But it's an easy fix. I'll whore it out of him. I know you wouldn't approve, Maggy, but there's nothing else I can do. He turns fifteen come January. I'll plan for then. In the meantime, I'll have to find a way to keep them apart.

Blaine closes the journal. He's had enough. He blinks his eyes, spots and shapes dancing in front of him as he recovers from Andrew Smythe's wretched penmanship. He looks out the window in time to see Kurt raise his seat. From this distance, Kurt doesn't look like a puppet. With his head titled, his eyes shut, a small smile curling his mouth, he looks like a human boy.

Blaine sees a car from another pawn shop pull up out front, and he runs to meet them with his webcam switched on. After Cooper's demeaning phone call, Blaine isn't too concerned with getting all the shots he claims that he needs, so he plans on only taking enough to keep his brother off his back. He ushers the men into the house and directs them down to the basement, filming as they look over the large tools and equipment, deciding what they can realistically sell. It takes a while to interview these new guys since they're so focused with the job of rifling through the power tools, plugging each one in to see which ones work or not. As soon as Blaine gets the bare minimum of shots that he needs, he races back up the stairs, taking a brief shot of Alex discussing what looks like the last of the puppets with Gary and Ted, and then heads for Kurt sitting in the van.

“Hey,” Blaine says, trying to sound nonchalant while panting uncontrollably, “I came out here to make sure you weren't getting too hot or anything.”

“Do you know how long it's been since I've felt the sun on my face?” Kurt sighs. “Or the wind?”

“I can only imagine.” Blaine cocks his head. “Do you feel it now?”

“Not really,” Kurt says, the smile on his lips taking a wry quality. “But I can remember them better when I'm outside than when I was locked up in the dark.”

Kurt's comment tugs at Blaine's heart. Tears prick his eyes at the thought of this beautiful boy locked up, shattered to pieces on that cold, damp floor, and he has to look away. He glances down and sees the notebook he gave Kurt open in his lap, the pencil stuck back in the spiral spine, two sheets of paper covered in drawings. Kurt didn't sketch clothes like he'd said, but the living room and dining room of the house, drawn the way they might have looked when Andrew bought the place. Blaine stares in awe at the intricate details of the embossed wallpaper, the grain in the wood floor, the furniture, down to the tiny touches – portraits on the walls, statuettes on the mantel, books in the bookcase, and the tools by the fireplace, arranged so purposefully that Blaine can tell which one gets the most use by how it leans slightly while the others stand perfectly straight. Even the light streaming in through spaces in the drawn curtains gives hints to what time of day it is.

“Kurt … your drawings … are they of this house?”

“Sort of.” Kurt closes the book, keeping his eyes staunchly shut, and hands it to Blaine. “It's a combination of the house we lived in with Sebastian's dad and this one the few times I saw it.”

“They're amazing,” Blaine says, thumbing through the pages. Kurt has sketched each upstairs bedroom, a bathroom, and also (Blaine discovers) a few outfits. They're an older fashion, a match to the time period Kurt lived in.

“Thank you,” Kurt says.

“I'm close to wrapping things up in there,” Blaine mentions, setting the notebook back on Kurt's lap. “We've probably got around another hour or so. Did you think about where you might want to go after this? The movies, maybe?”

Kurt raises one eyelid and peeks at Blaine.

“Do you think there's some place we can go and see the sky?”

Blaine nods.

“I think I know the perfect place.”

***

“I've missed the beach so much,” Kurt says, sitting cross-legged on the retaining wall. His eyes travel up and down the shoreline, watching the white caps of the tide curl into the sand.

“Me, too,” Blaine agrees, his own gaze following Kurt's.

Kurt turns and looks at Blaine. “But, don't you live here?”

“No.” Blaine coughs, the confession he should have made before tickling the back of his throat. “Actually, I'm from Westerville, but I live in Lima.”

Kurt gasps, throwing both hands over his mouth. “You're kidding!”

“Nope.” Blaine takes out his cell phone and opens his photo gallery. “Here. Take a look.” He scoots closer to Kurt so that he can better see the pictures on the screen. “These are a few of my friends from high school.”

“Where do you go?”

“McKinley.”

“Hmmm … must be new,” Kurt says, watching Blaine swipe the screen and change the photo.

“This is the Auglaize River last winter. The Glee Club went skating there over break.”

“That's quite a handsome young man you've got your arms around,” Kurt remarks dryly, eyes darting away from the image of a tall blond grabbing Blaine from behind. Blaine smiles at the jealousy plain in Kurt's voice.

“That's my best friend Sam. He's just a friend,” Blaine explains.

“You look close,” Kurt says, noticeably unconvinced.

“We are,” Blaine admits with a smile that slowly takes over his entire face.

“Quite.”

Blaine switches the photo, bypassing a few others with Sam in them. He wants to tease Kurt with the knowledge that he garnered from those journals, how Andrew had hoped Kurt could settle Sebastian down, how the two boys were so fond of each other, but it seems like a cruel memory to bring up. Kurt might not remember it that way and besides, thinking about that closeness starts to plant a seed of jealousy in Blaine's mind.

Especially that kiss.

Blaine shows Kurt a few, more generic, pictures – the farmer's market where the Secret Society of Superheroes Club held a food drive last Thanksgiving, the Lima Mall, The Lima Bean coffee shop where Blaine goes pretty much every day after school. Kurt looks at these photos like he's absorbing the images into his brain, imprinting them there.

“It looks so different now,” he says. “I don't think I'd recognize it if I went back there.”

“Do you want to go back there?” Blaine asks, closing the photo gallery and pocketing his phone.

Kurt looks at the ocean, sadly shaking his head. “No. There's nothing there for me now.” He wraps his arms around his torso, runs his hands up his exposed skin.

“Do you want to leave?” Blaine assumes Kurt has caught a chill, forgetting for a moment that Kurt can't feel the cold.

“Not yet. You know, back when I …” He stops. He stares off at the distance, then he shakes his head. “Do you think it's more fitting to say when I was alive? Or should I say when I was human? I mean, if I'm speaking of the past, what do I say? How do I address it?”

“That's a good question.” Blaine wraps his arms around his bent knees and squeezes. He's definitely catching a chill, but he has no intention of mentioning it. “I would say that you're alive. And I like to think of you as human. Maybe you don't need to make the distinction.”

Kurt looks at his hands, turning them over front to back, examining them beneath the moonlight. As well made as they are, as much time was put into them, they don't look like human hands. They glisten unnaturally, and his knobby knuckles reveal the fact that his digits separate, each piece held together by wire, every time he bends them.

He may be alive, if this is what alive is, but he's far from human.

“What's going to happen to me now?” he asks, looking at Blaine with his hands splayed in front of him. “I'm a puppet. I'm made of porcelain. I can't have a normal life like you. I know you said you would help me, but how? What can I do?” Kurt drops his hands in his lap, helpless, and Blaine sighs. He feels just as helpless. He doesn't know exactly how Kurt feels, but Blaine is human and still, most of the time, he has no clue what he's doing. He can't fix this, not completely, not right now. He doesn't even know where to start. So he puts an arm around Kurt's shoulders and holds him close, and together they watch the waves chase each other down the beach.

***

Blaine and Kurt return to the beach house late. They're not covered in sand, so Blaine doesn't rush to shower right away. He takes Kurt to his bedroom and sits him down on the bed.

“Okay,” Blaine says. “I had a thought. Hang out here for a second. I'll be right back.”

Kurt nods, watching Blaine disappear out the door. He crosses the living room and heads for the opposite end of the house. These rooms Blaine doesn't go to usually with the exception of the kitchen. Where his room and his brother's room are situated side-by-side on one end of the house, the master bedroom and his parent's library mirror them on the other.

It's the master bedroom that Blaine ducks into.

When Blaine was younger, his mother used to sew a lot. It was a hobby that inspired him, but that she kind of grew out of the more “adult” she became. He can't remember exactly when that happened, it just kind of did. She kept a basket of sewing supplies in the bottom of the closet, along with a few old fashion magazines, so Blaine always had hopes of her picking it up again.

To date, she hasn't.

On their last visit here, his father, who is tall and thin like Kurt, left clothes hanging in the closet. He had planned to pick them up on their next summer trip, but there never was another one. Blaine looks them over, frowning at how out-of-style they are, but he hopes that Kurt can do something with them. Blaine pulls the clothes off the hangers, grabs the basket of supplies and a handful of magazines, and races back through the house, ignoring Sebastian with each pass.

“Here we go.” Blaine slides into the bedroom on his sock-covered feet and drops the supplies onto his bed. Kurt sees them and goes from sullen to ecstatic.

“Oh, Blaine.” He picks through the clothes and the magazines, smiling so brightly that Blaine thinks Kurt might burst into song. “Did you bring all of this in here for me?”

“Yeah. Well, I thought these clothes might fit you better.” He opens the basket of sewing supplies. “And if they don't, you could alter them, maybe? And …”

Blaine stops when Kurt kisses him on the cheek. It's brief, innocent, but it makes Blaine's entire body tingle.

“It's wonderful,” Kurt whispers. “Thank you.”

“Yeah? Oh. I'm glad you like them.” He stands and backs up toward the bathroom door while Kurt continues to sift through the items on the bed. “I'm just going to take a quick rinse, and then …”

“Are you going to work on Sebastian?” Kurt's expression seems genuinely hopeful, but Blaine still has trouble interpreting that wary tone in Kurt's voice.

“Do you really want me to?” Blaine asks.

Kurt pauses a second.

It's a second in which Blaine thinks Kurt might say no.

“Yes,” Kurt says in the same unsure tone. “Yes, I do.”

***

Blaine's shower is basically a dip beneath cold water to get his head straight before he jumps back out and joins Kurt for what could turn out to be a long, exhaustive night of repairing Sebastian. He has only been at it for fifteen minutes, but already he wants to throw in the towel. Sitting in a chair from the dining room that he pulled up in front of the loveseat, Blaine struggles to get Sebastian's arm seated correctly. Whereas Kurt's body felt magnetic, his broken limbs pulling together, longing to return to their body, Sebastian's body feels like he's repelling these pieces away. Maybe Sebastian doesn't want to be put back together, Blaine muses.

Or maybe he doesn't want help from Blaine.

If Blaine had the money to send him to a professional repair person, he would. At least it would get Sebastian out of the house for a few days. The longer he sits on the loveseat staring blankly into space, the more unnerving it feels having him around.

Blaine wrestles with the piece, eventually fitting the arm in its socket. He threads the wires through, twisting them together and tying them, but they snap before he can finish. The sharp end recoils and hits Blaine on the arm, leaving a long scratch. Sebastian's arm falls off his body and onto the loveseat.

“Dammit,” Blaine screams, dropping Sebastian to look at his smarting wound, which sends the loose arm tumbling to the floor.

Kurt puts down his sewing and runs over to examine Blaine's injured arm.

“Is it bleeding?” he asks, looking on with concern.

“I don't think so,” Blaine hisses, “but it hurts like hell.” Blaine reaches for a box of tissues on the table while Kurt bends over to retrieve Sebastian's arm.

“Blaine!” Kurt exclaims, getting on his hands and knees. “You didn't tell me you had a cat!”

“I … I don't.” Blaine leans to the right and peeks over Kurt's shoulder. “Oh, is it a tabby cat?” he asks, remembering the fugitive cat that scared the living daylights out of him. “Apparently he's found a way in here.”

“No!” Kurt gasps, pulling a furry body out from underneath the loveseat. Blaine eyes the unmoving animal and groans low in his throat.

Great. The cat broke in again just in time to die in my dining room.

But what Kurt has in his hands isn't the dead body of a tabby cat. It's the puppet of a tabby cat - the same tabby cat Blaine had seen in the house before. It has the same inquisitive green eyes, the same ripple pattern to the fur.

“Abigail,” Kurt murmurs, gently stroking the animal's coat.

“Abigail?” Blaine slides off his chair to kneel on the floor beside him.

“Yes.” Kurt smiles affectionately at the realistic-looking feline puppet with the silky fur and the sparkling green eyes. “Sebastian made her. His dad was teaching us to make puppets, and Abigail was Sebastian's.”

“But why would Abigail be here?” Blaine asks. “I didn't bring her here.”

“Abigail was the first,” Kurt says, petting the cat as if he expected it to spring to life any second.

“The first … what?”

“The first puppet that Sebastian's dad tried the spell on,” Kurt explains, each word forming as if the memory comes to him in the instant that he speaks.

“A spell?”

Kurt's eyes grow wide as he starts to remember.

“Sebastian's dad bartered for a spell from the Calhoun family. A favor for a favor. It was supposed to capture any lingering soul and put it into the vessel of your choice.”

“But, why start with the cat?” Blaine asks. It sounds far too fantastic to be real.

But then again …

 “Abigail wasn't just any cat.” Kurt holds the animal up to his nose and stares into its eyes, trying to coax the creature to come alive for them. “She was Sebastian's cat. His best friend back before I joined their group. She was a stray. Andrew didn't really let Sebastian keep her. She followed them around because Sebastian fed her, and they couldn't get rid of her. After she died, Sebastian said he always kind of felt her around. He swore he would see her dart out from behind corners, or feel her curl up next to him while he slept. She was always hiding under things and scurrying beneath toys and such, looking for mice …”

Blaine's mind conjures up the sounds of scurrying he heard in the Victorian house when he first entered it, wondering if they might have been made by Abigail hunting around the piles of trash.

“He got the spell to bring us back, but he tried it out on Abigail first.”

“So, he was able to bring her back because she stayed behind? So that means that you stayed behind?”

Kurt puts Abigail down beside Sebastian on the loveseat, moving the cat close to his friend's body so that they can finally be together again.

“I couldn't leave him,” Kurt says, giving the cat puppet one last pat on the head. “He was like a father to me. And he felt so guilty … I had to make sure that he was going to be okay.”

“And Sebastian?” Blaine bites his tongue. The answer is obvious, but Blaine doesn't want to let on that he harbors secret knowledge of the motives of Andrew – or Sebastian - Smythe. After what Blaine read in those journals, he knows that Sebastian didn't stick around for his father. No way. There's only one person he would have stayed around for.

“He stayed around for me.” When Kurt turns and looks at Blaine, it's with the ghost of tears in his eyes – tears that don't exist but are as real as any others, brought on by emotion that Kurt can feel but can't fully express. “That's why you have to promise me you'll put him back together.” Kurt wraps his arms around Blaine's torso. “You have to fix him. Please? For me?”

“I will,” Blaine says, holding Kurt just as tightly in his arms. “I promised I will, and I will.” With his cheek resting in Kurt's hair, he looks Sebastian over. He should fix Sebastian – at least give the poor guy another arm or a leg. He did promise Kurt. Sebastian's puppet is made of wood and the pieces are not as extensively damaged as Kurt's were, but fixing Sebastian feels like the last thing he should do.

He has a feeling that if Sebastian wakes up, he has the power to take Kurt away from him for good.

***

There must be rats somewhere beneath the floor. Or possums. Or maybe Abigail is up and roaming about the house, chasing dust bunnies or pouncing on her shadow. Either way, in his sleep, Blaine can hear the scrape, scrape, scrape of something moving across the wood floor.

Or maybe it's a gnawing. He can't tell in his half-asleep state.

His mind swims with dreams of Kurt: Kurt sitting on the sand at the beach, staring off into the water; Kurt dancing beneath the moonlight, arms outstretched to the sky; Kurt lying beside him where they fell asleep together on the living room floor, their fingers intertwined.

Kurt's blue eyes, his smooth skin, his pink lips.

Blaine feels a tickle on his cheek, bothering him awake. He opens his eyes with a smile, expecting to see a tuft of orange fur, or maybe blue eyes staring at him from an already awake Kurt.

He hopes it's eyes – stunning blue glass eyes.

Blaine's eyes open slowly, holding on to as much dream as he can, even though he's eager to spend another day with Kurt.

He focuses through slits. It's eyes that he sees alright, but this time they're not blue.

They're green.

And they don't belong to Abigail.

Blaine's eyes snap open, realization propelling him awake.

Sebastian is lying out on the floor in front of him, nose pressed against his, wooden mouth split into a startling grin.

“Well hey there, tiger,” Sebastian says. “Don't I get a kiss hello?”