The tented cards move quickly beneath the man's nimble hands – nothing but a blur to the eager brown eyes of the girl whose dimwitted boyfriend was about to lose a day's pay. He had come at the raven-haired man with some big words and penny bets, but now the rube was quiet as a mouse and in it over his head with a whole dollar on the line.

Of course, the man with the crooked grin and the head of black curls dealing the cards isn't necessarily on the up and up. He has a peculiar set of skills that he doesn't openly talk about, but which help him in his line of business. His con of choice is Three-card Monte. He doesn't need a shill to help him swindle these simple country fools. The cards talk to him, but so do most things. If he had to explain it, he would say he's overly perceptive. He sees things before they happen, so in his life there are few surprises. His parents liked to call it pure dumb luck…that is until they kicked him out of their house and told him never to show his face around again. That's fine by him. He has no problem being on his own, especially when he can tell right off the bat who he can trust and who he should stay away from. He uses his special gift to win several of the games along the boardwalk before setting up his own and waiting for dolts like this one to try their luck.

All the luck belongs to him, so they never even have a chance.

“Find the pretty lady, find the pretty lady,” he says, tossing the cards quickly, and then letting them fall where they want. He lifts his whiskey-hued hazel eyes and fixes them on the man in front of him, who studies the cards carefully like he's reading the Bible.

“This one,” the mark says, jabbing at the card to the far left with his index finger. The man who dealt the cards hisses doubtfully and shakes his head.

“Are you sure it's that one?” he asks. “Because I wouldn't want you to lose a dollar if you're not entirely sure.”

The mark looks down at his chosen card, his finger pressing it down flat onto the table, his conviction slipping with every second the man stares at him, waiting for him to make a decision.

“Come on, Peter,” the mud-colored brunette says, bouncing on her feet, “the show's gonna start and we're gonna be late. Just make a choice already.”

“Yeah, Peter,” the man says, his crooked grin becoming more so. “Pick a card so we can wrap this up.”

Peter's finger on his card begins to waver, and with a huff he switches to the middle card instead. The girl claps and giggles, and the man flips over the card to reveal (with a tiny, hidden glimmer of triumph in his eyes) the three of spades.

“Ooo,” the man says as the girl's inane clapping dies down and Peter stares on in disbelief, “tough luck, kid.” He flips over the first card Peter chose to reveal the money card – the queen of hearts. “But those are the breaks. You should always stick to your first instincts.”

The dealer collects up his cards without looking at his mark. Peter watches, his body shaking with barely restrained outrage.

“I want my dollar back,” Peter says, his voice low and his tone threatening.

“I'm sorry,” the man says, pocketing his deck and Peter's lost dollar. “No refunds.”

“That's a whole day's paycheck…” Peter leans forward with these words, trying to use his full head's height difference to intimidate the man who doesn't even spare him a glance, “and I'm not throwing it away on you.”

“Well, then you should be more careful what you do with it.” The man's eyes bypass Peter as he winks at the brunette girl with a click of his tongue. He turns on his heel, making to leave, but Peter bars his exit with an arm stuck out, bracing against the wall behind him.

“Peter,” the girl says, “let's just go.”

“You should listen to your girl, Peter,” the man says in a tone leaps and bounds more dangerous than Peter's, “unless you want that arm of yours broke. How are you going to earn back your dollar tomorrow with a stump instead of an arm?”

The man turns his eyes up to look at Peter hovering over him. Peter's eyes bore into his, challenging, ready for a fight, but the man with the cards in his pocket is calm, relaxed, and unwilling to back down.

“Ah, you're not worth it,” Peter spits, pushing himself off the wall he's leaning against and storming off the way they had come.

“So, are we heading to the show?” the girl asks, taking off after her boyfriend.

“I don't have any more money on me, Bridgette,” Peter barks out, “so, no. We ain't going to no Goddamned show!”

The man shakes his head and rolls his eyes, pulling the dollar he won from his front pocket. He folds it in half lengthwise, runs it beneath his nose, and gives it a good long sniff.

“Ahhh,” he sighs, folding it up and shoving it back into his pocket, almost drunk off that look of rage in Peter's eyes. He loved his job. He nearly got off on it.

With a pocket full of money he didn't have an hour before, he considers his choices. He needs to eat. That's priority number one. And if he could find a lay for the night, that would be the cherry on the ice-cream sundae. He turns back around to head for the boardwalk. With his foot hovering in the air, he stops at what he sees coming his way - two young men cutting through the crowd that make him stop and stare. He can't help himself. They're both beautifully young, both incredibly handsome, and they look painfully naïve - though the shorter one with the pale skin and the blue eyes more so than his green-eyed companion. Normally he would pull out his deck of cards and invite them to play, but he sees something in the shorter boy's clear eyes that he doesn't often see out here while he combs the streets for prey.

This boy is not jaded by life, or society, or circumstance. His smile, though guileless, is also genuine. Those unspeakable blue eyes are brimming with intelligence, and the man watching him seems to know that underneath that innocent exterior is a boy who probably can't be swindled easily.

The two prepare to pass him by when the green-eyed boy turns and locks eyes with him.

“What are you staring at?” he snaps, putting an arm protectively around his friend and pulling him closer.

“Not you,” he replies, staring straight into the surprised blue eyes of the boy in front of him. He steps forward, but the green-eyed boy steps back, taking his companion back a step with him. He keeps his gaze glued to the blushing young man's face, resisting the urge to shoot the other obnoxious twit a withering glare. “Hello, gorgeous. My name's Devon,” he says with a side-ways grin. “Devon Anderson.” He extends his hand towards the young man, who steps forward and takes it.

“Kurt,” the boy replies, shaking the man's hand once. “Kurt Hummel.”

“Kurt,” Devon repeats, saying the word softly, like the prelude to a kiss, and the boy's cheeks color pink and pretty, high on his cheeks. Devon is suddenly fascinated by this young man in front of him, with eyes like cool water and skin as smooth and perfect as fine bone China.

“Yeah, and my name's Sebastian,” his snarky friend says, tugging Kurt by the shoulders and pulling his hand from Devon's grasp. “I'm sorry to break this up, but we've got a show to perform.” Sebastian puts weight on the words as if they should matter to Devon. He nods, but his eyes never leave Kurt's face.

“Are you two boys in that Smythe and Sons folly down at the forum?”

“Yeah,” Kurt says.

“We're headliners,” Sebastian puts in with an air of importance.

“I saw that a few nights ago. Quite a bit of a farce, I'll tell you that…” He smiles when Sebastian scowls but he doesn't linger on his face too long, turning his hazel eyes on Kurt again. “But the boy with the silver pipes here was worth the price of the ticket. A whole nickel.”

“That's sweet of you to say, Mr. Anderson,” Kurt says.

“Please,” the man says, “call me Devon.”

“Devon,” Kurt says, and for the first time in a long while, Devon feels his heart stutter.

“Super. Well, we have to get going,” Sebastian says again, sounding defensive and maybe a bit jealous.

“Hey,” Devon says, following after Kurt before his ill-tempered friend can yank him away. “Whatcha doin' later? Maybe I can take you out for a soda after your show?”

Kurt bites his lip, his eyes darting down to his shoes and the dirt beneath his feet, an unconscious reminder to keep himself grounded. His dreams aren't here, that's for sure, and he can't let himself get attached to anything that might keep him here.

“Maybe in another life,” Kurt says coyly, turning away from the man with the raven curls, who stands against the wall and watches the boy walk away, a small hole forming in his chest.

“It's a date,” Devon whispers, taking a last look at Kurt before he walks completely out of his life.

Blaine wakes up with a smile on his face, mumbling the words to one of his favorite songs.

You make me feel like Im livin a teenage dream, the way you turn me on…

As he becomes more aware – as his mind leaves the bustling boardwalk from his dream behind – he can hear the tune playing in the air around him. He opens his eyes to the morning sunlight. He stretches his arms over his head, feeling the satisfying crack of his back, stiff from slouching over Sebastian's puppet body earlier this morning, and that's when he realizes he is hearing the music, playing somewhere off in the distance.

The living room. He left his cell phone on the floor in the living room.

Crap.

He doesn't want to get out of bed. He doesn't want to wake up after getting nearly negative hours of sleep.

He doesn't want to leave Kurt.

He debates the merits of ignoring the ringing phone. They're ripping out the walls today, but it's just a house. Who would really be impacted if they put off demolition for one day? He knows he'd be happy to call in sick and spend the rest of the day wrapped up in Kurt's arms. Blaine sighs, daydreaming of an afternoon full of nothing but slow kisses and the occasional nap. He still has yet to ask Kurt his feelings about that. But he knows they can't right now. They're moving on in the renovation, and Blaine has a job to do.

That could be the contractor calling this very minute.

Besides, with Sebastian around the house, there probably wouldn't be much uninterrupted making out going on between them.

Blaine groans, but only in his head so he doesn't wake Kurt up. He takes a look at the resting puppet, his eyes shut, his pink lips forming a sweet smile, his cheeks unnaturally rosy, but the permanent flush of color suits him. Blaine wonders what Kurt would do if he put a kiss to his forehead…to his cheek…to his smiling mouth…

The phone stops ringing and Blaine gladly starts to climb back in bed, but then the song begins again, signaling that whoever it was called back. The ringing phone is a persistent presence, summoning Blaine from beneath the covers. He leaves the bed and tiptoes into the living room, the floor ice-cold beneath his feet.

Scorching hot days, freezing cold nights.

It was such a joy to be in a desert.

With his sole focus on silencing the ringing phone, he accidentally hits the blanket on the floor and slides, almost falling forward on his face. He catches himself and scoops up his phone just as it stops ringing. Blaine growls at the Godforsaken thing, mumbling nonsense warnings at it underneath his breath. He stands up, hoping that the sound of him tripping didn't wake Sebastian. Blaine isn't in the mood to lure him out of Cooper's room with the promise of another argument. He peeks at the door, open a crack, the room inside suspiciously dark for this hour of the morning. Blaine frowns at trying so hard to avoid him. He doesn't want this to turn into a feud. It would all be so much easier if they could find some kind of middle ground and become friends, though that's less than likely to happen when Sebastian hates his guts.

Blaine plops down into the dining room chair and looks at his phone. He missed four calls – all from Cooper. Now Blaine groans out loud. He can't escape drama, no matter how hard he tries. If he's not plagued by one self-important ass, why not another? Blaine is about to pocket his phone and ignore him, but he annoyingly discovers he can't. He doesn't really feel like talking to his older brother but he can't prolong the inevitable. He can't finish the renovation without Cooper and bowing out is not an option. Blaine is not that kind of person.

Besides, Cooper is his brother, and like it or not Blaine has worked hard to have this relationship with him, even if he is a conceited egomaniac. Blaine redials the number, waiting with the phone held away from his ear for his brother to answer, hoping that the call goes to voicemail.

“Hey, squirt.”

No such luck.

“What do you want, Cooper?” Blaine asks, using his exhaustion to help fuel his bitterness. “Are you calling about the house, or did you want to tell me what an idiot I am again?”

Cooper sighs into the phone, hoping that after 24 hours Blaine wouldn't be upset anymore.

“Look,” Cooper says, “I'm sorry, alright? I didn't mean what I said. You're not stupid. I just…I just worry about you.”

Blaine looks down at his feet against the hard wood floor, hot skin causing vapor to form on the slick, chilled surface. He doesn't say anything because in his mind there's nothing he needs to say.

He might have just brushed Cooper's comment away if he hadn't mentioned their parents. Cooper knows that the issue Blaine has with their folks is a hot-button one, but Cooper loves to push buttons so much that sometimes Blaine doesn't think Cooper knows he's doing it.

“And that house…” he continues when Blaine doesn't speak, “I know it's messing with your head.”

That statement Blaine has to agree with. There is something about that house. He felt it before he even went into it - something even more than Kurt and Sebastian. Something more he's still missing, he thinks.

“I know,” he says quietly in non-committal agreement, raising a hand to wipe the grains of sleep from the corners of his eyes, “but like I said, you don't have to worry about me, especially if you're going to be an ass about it.”

“But, I do worry about you, little brother,” Cooper says in that sincere voice Blaine only hears on the rarest occasions. “I love you, you big nerd.”

Suddenly it's all right there – a disjointed, rambling explanation about Andrew and the spell and Kurt and Sebastian and the fire that killed them. He wants to tell his brother. He needs to tell someone. As much as he cares for Kurt, as much as he needs to keep him safe, all of these secrets are aching in Blaine's body to be told, but as much as he tries, the words don't come out.

“I love you, too,” Blaine says in their place, closing his eyes and leaning back in his chair and sliding down so far he nearly falls to the floor.

“So…am I forgiven?” Cooper asks, knowing better than to try and charm his way out of an argument with his brother but giving it a shot anyway.

Blaine smiles. He can't stay mad at Cooper for too long. He's not just his brother – he's his friend. An inappropriate friend you try not to bring over to your house too often if you can help it, but a friend.

One of his best friends.

“Speaking of…how's your head?” Cooper asks, which Blaine knows is code for has he had any visions lately?

Cooper believes in his brother's abilities – always has, ever since Blaine was little and his mother dismissed the creepily accurate things he said as mere coincidence, or good guesses.

Cooper doesn't want to believe, but he believes.

“It's alright,” Blaine says, “nothing too out-of-the-ordinary, only…I had kind of an interesting dream about Great-Grandpa Devon.”

“I'm not surprised,” Cooper says with a laugh, slipping comfortably back into his usual cocky self. “He had some weird voodoo thing going on like you do.”

“Yeah,” Blaine says, “I remember dad saying something about that a long time ago.” He opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling, trying to recall as much of the dream as he can. This isn't the first time he'd dreamt of his great-grandfather. He had been kind of named after him, and his grandmother always said that names carry connections – strong connections. Could those connections include psychic powers?

This dream couldn't have been a memory. Kurt and Sebastian were in it, and Blaine can't remember ever seeing either of them in a dream before.

But it seemed so real. As he woke up this morning, he could smell traces of popcorn from the boardwalk mixed with the sweet scent of cotton candy, and some sort of strong cologne – probably something Peter was wearing.

“He apparently had some great scam going,” Cooper says, “all up and down the West Coast. Was tarred and feathered in one town, I think.”

“God,” Blaine exhales, pondering how painful it would be to remove hardened tar from a human body without taking the skin off along with it. Strangely, the way his skin prickles and his muscles go rigid, it feels like an experience he's already had.

“Yeah, I know,” Cooper commiserates. “So…moving on. Yay! I'm forgiven! Thank God, because that last footage you sent me was shit. I need some better stuff, tout de suite.” Blaine winces at Cooper's butchered high school French. “I'm on a deadline, you know.”

Blaine snickers.

“Do you even know the meaning of the word ‘deadline'?” Blaine jokes.

“Yes, I do,” Cooper mocks, “unlike you, who have apparently forgotten.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Blaine asks.

“The sketches?” Cooper asks. “Does that ring a bell?”

Blaine thinks a moment of their conversation yesterday, all those stupid texts, with no mention of…

“Shit!” Blaine mutters, jerking upright. Cooper is right. He had forgotten.

Thinking back on the rest of yesterday, it's easy to see how.

“Shit's right, Blaine,” Cooper says. Blaine can here Cooper's normal shuffling around, pecking at computer keys, shifting papers. “I have a buyer already interested in the house but he wants to see what we intend on doing with it first, so I need those sketches pronto. Pronto-issimo, if possible.”

“Yeah, sure,” Blaine covers, so overwhelmed that he doesn't even bother to point out that ‘pronto-issimo' isn't a real word. He curses quietly, knowing that a decent mock-up is going to take more time than he has.

“Focus on the main rooms,” Cooper says, biting into an apple and talking with his mouth full. “Don' wor'y ‘bout the basemen' an' all that.”

“Okay,” Blaine says, standing and pacing the floor, trying to get his blurry brain to think, “will do. Why don't you let me get going so I can get you…that.”

“Great,” Cooper drawls sloppily, taking another bite. “Than's a lot, bud'y. I'll tal' wit you la'er.”

“Don't choke on your apple,” Blaine says and then disconnects the call.

He paces a few more steps and then curses out loud.

“Shit!” he says, tapping his chin with his phone and stomping back to the bedroom. “Shitshitshitshitshit…”

He stops cursing when he walks through the bedroom door. He expects to see Kurt asleep. He had hoped to climb back into bed again and sneak his arms around him. But Kurt is sitting up at the edge of the bed with his sewing in hand as he waits for Blaine to return.

“Good morning, Blaine,” Kurt says with a smile that Blaine wouldn't mind waking up to every morning. He eyes the phone in Blaine's hand and tilts his head. “Who would call you so early?”

“My brother,” Blaine says with a one-armed shrug, distracted.

“Oh,” Kurt says as he ties off his thread. He reaches over to Blaine's desk for a pair of scissors and delicately clips the end. “You know, I was wondering…” Kurt starts. His smile becomes bashful and he avoids Blaine's eyes by concentrating on hiding the knotted end of his thread, “I would like to try and help you out today…with the house, if I can.”

Blaine nods, not entirely paying attention.

“Yeah,” he says. “Sure. I'm certain I can find…”

Blaine smiles as Kurt's offer registers and the perfect opportunity leaps immediately to mind.

“Actually, I can use your help today,” Blaine says. Kurt sits up straight, trying to bite his lip, probably out of habit, but not quite making it. “I was wondering if you would be willing to help me with some sketches.”

“Sketches?” Kurt asks, his eyebrows meeting in the middle.

“Remember the sketches you did while you were in the car? Of the house? I need some sketches done of the living room, the bed rooms, the kitchen…you know, the important rooms.”

“Okay,” Kurt says, sounding a bit skeptical, “and why would you need that?”

“Because I need to show people who are interested in buying the house what it's going to look like when we're done with it,” Blaine explains, taking a seat beside Kurt on the bed, “and I kind of was supposed to do it yesterday. I might have forgotten.”

Blaine looks up at him with open, pleading eyes and a downturned mouth, leaning his head on Kurt's shoulder and looking ridiculously childish. Kurt chuckles.

“But how am I supposed to know what it's going to look like?” Kurt asks, pushing at Blaine's shoulder but not hard enough to move him away.

“Just draw what you think it should look like,” Blaine says. “We're restoring it to as close to the original style as possible.”

Blaine looks at Kurt and Kurt looks right back.

“I trust you,” Blaine adds and Kurt shakes his head.

“Alright,” Kurt agrees. “I think I can do that.” Kurt looks down at his hands, at his twiddling thumbs. “Will I be able to take a peek inside the house?” he asks. “I know it might sound silly, but I'm kind of curious. I kind of need to go back.”

“It doesn't sound silly at all,” Blaine says, remembering the time his sophomore year when he had been bullied at a school dance. A few homophobic jocks ganged up on him and his date, and had beaten him up pretty badly. After that, he didn't want to go back to school. He asked his parents to transfer him somewhere else and they agreed, but his father told him that if he ran away from bullies like that, he'd be running forever. Blaine didn't think he could ever walk the halls of McKinley again, but he gave it a chance, and he did it with his head held high.

Blaine understands that sometimes it's important to revisit the prisons that try to break you and prove they don't have that power.

Kurt was trapped in that house - in that prison - literally broken. It would make sense that he would want to walk back into that house whole.

“Let's get dressed and get an early start,” Blaine suggests, patting at Kurt's knee.

“Any particular reason?” Kurt asks, following Blaine with his eyes as the boy heads back toward the living room. Blaine stops and turns around in the doorway.

“I was hoping to wrap up early today,” Blaine explains. “This way I can ask you out on another date.” Blaine winks at Kurt and leaves it at that, padding across the wood floor of the still empty living room and heading for the dining room. He looks left and right, at both bedroom doors, and then ducks beneath the table.

He left the three journals from yesterday stuffed underneath the rear seat in his car, mostly read, but he needs new ones to read. Blaine wants to understand Sebastian. He wants to find a reason why this boy who seemed so besotted by Kurt - who still seems so in love with him - can treat him the way he does, with so much hurt and disdain. He can't exactly ask Sebastian these questions, so he decides to go to the source and read what Andrew has to say about his son. He wants to understand the relationship Sebastian had with his father that molded the acerbic personality he has. His father couldn't have always been so apathetic about his son. There had to have been a time when he loved his boy. What happened between them? What was the turning point?

He tears open all the boxes at once to save time and rummages through the many journals, inspecting the dates on the covers. He knows what he's trying to find. 1923 – the year before the Smythes found Kurt, and perhaps 1929 – the year Andrew Smythe was planning to pawn off his son's virginity. He comes across 1929 first, right after 1927 in the space left by the journal he borrowed yesterday, but he can't seem to find 1923…or 1922. He was sure they were there before, but now they're gone.

He hears footsteps in both bedrooms, and has to think quickly. Kurt doesn't know he has the journals and he's not sure what Kurt would say about him reading them, but Blaine doesn't think this is the best way for him to find out.

He has an idea. He rifles through the books and finds the one that smells like smoke – 1932. He stares at it, at the cover still blanketed in a layer of fine ash. Touching it, running his fingers through the filth and collecting it up on his fingers, triggers a memory – the heat, the flames, the screams. It's the journal that was lying on the small table in Andrew Smythe's house during that tragic fire. Somehow it survived the blaze. Blaine peeks into the other boxes he hadn't opened yet to make sure the journals he's looking for didn't migrate there. The dates continue up and up, well into the sixties and seventies, and as clues click together and thoughts formulate in his head, Blaine has a sudden streak of inspiration. Andrew Smythe wrote constantly. He recorded the events of nearly every single day, even after his son and Kurt had died. Maybe somewhere in these journals is the answer to saving Kurt and Sebastian. Maybe the spell he used is written down somewhere in these later journals, along with the way to reverse it.

Blaine hears a creak in the floor and a footstep coming closer.

“Kurt?” he calls out from beneath the cloth, but he doesn't get a reply. He takes off his t-shirt and wraps it around the two books he has in his hands. Then he closes the flaps of the boxes, leaving them basically covered since he doesn't have the time to tuck in the flaps. He crawls out from beneath the table, smacking his head on the lip as he backs out completely. He rubs the sore spot on his head with his hand and stands, running straight into an unpleasant smirking face.

“Hey, Sebastian,” Blaine says dryly, hugging the concealed books to his chest.

“Hey there, sport,” Sebastian answers, crossing his arms over his chest. “Whatcha doin' under there?”

Blaine looks the puppet over, noticing that Sebastian had found a pair of pants and a t-shirt in his brother's closet that fit him. Having his wooden body covered up made him only a little less unsettling.

“Nothing,” Blaine answers blandly. “Just getting something I needed for today.” He lifts the wrapped books in his arms slightly, but doesn't offer them up for Sebastian's approval.

“A-ha,” Sebastian says, raising an eyebrow the same way Kurt often does, but in Sebastian's case, it seems sinister. “And you keep important things under the dining room table.”

Blaine becomes annoyed that he's being interrogated by Sebastian and that this unwarranted line of questioning is keeping him from getting back to Kurt, who he had asked on another date.

“Well, where would you keep them?” Blaine asks, brushing past Sebastian with a smile starting on his face, unconcerned with what Sebastian may think of him.

Besides, if Blaine's right and the journals under the table hold the secret to reversing the spell, Blaine might not have to deal with Sebastian any more. His soul will be free of his puppet body and he can move on.

A step away from his door, with his hand reaching for the door knob, the thought boomeranged around and hit him in the chest.

Reversing Andrew's spell won't give him a human Kurt. It will free Kurt's soul from his puppet body.

Blaine thinks it over and over, but he can't deny that seems like the only logical recourse.

Saving Kurt from an eternity as a puppet means releasing his soul and sending him on.

After that, Blaine might never see Kurt again.