“Blaine…”

Kurt opens the door to Blaine's house with the key Blaine gave him, and walks inside like he lives there. The house looks empty, but it always looks empty, even when Blaine's home – cold and slightly impersonal, regardless of the way Blaine has it furnished, all the finishing touches he put into it. If Kurt didn't know Blaine, he would think Blaine was only renting the house. He wouldn't realize, as most people probably don't take the time to do, that this neatness, this order is Blaine. This is the only way he can exist, with everything where it needs to be, and nothing frivolous taking up too much space. It's more like a museum sometimes, and Blaine likes to redecorate often, rotating certain pieces of art to different areas of the house to showcase new ones. The first few times Kurt came over, he expected to see a table by the door and a clear plastic honor box, asking for donations. Usually the only way to tell that Blaine's around is his constant piano playing. Ninety-nine percent of the time, the air is full of music – jazz, classical, top 40s stuff – but right now, nothing. Just silence.

“Blaine?” Kurt waits inside the doorway a second to give his sub the chance to come out of hiding and grab Kurt's coat. He smiles, the corner of his mouth tipping up as he counts the seconds in his head, thinking about the sublime punishment he's going to dish out for this little infraction. Kurt knows Blaine. He knows his baby boy loves punishment. But the longer he waits, a sick feeling grows in Kurt's stomach, tumbling around, making pits as it goes. The house is not just quiet, it's dark. Kurt knows that Blaine should be there. Blaine is a slave to his schedule. It's a huge part of what keeps him grounded.

Something about Blaine not being there when Kurt calls doesn't feel right.

Kurt takes a quick glance around, shrugging off his coat and hanging it up himself. He sees a stack of mail on the coffee table in front of the couch. Kurt raises a brow, the hair at the nape of his neck standing on end.

On top of his anxiety issues, Blaine deals with a fair amount of obsessive behaviors. He wouldn't leave his mail scattered on the coffee table. It would be physically painful for him.

“Baby boy, where are you?”

Kurt walks in slowly, sweeping his eyes around, letting details pop out at him, grab his attention.

Blaine's keys on the floor – a definite no-no.

His coffee mug on the kitchen table, filled an inch from the top with black coffee. Kurt gives it a touch as he passes by. The ceramic is barely lukewarm, and there's no creamer. Blaine never drinks his coffee without creamer. He's so devoted to creamer that there's a small basket in his fridge full of tiny creamer cups in assorted flavors – Irish cream, caramel, mocha, toffee, Girl Scout Thin Mint. (That one was Kurt's addition. He saw it on the table at a Denny's and immediately thought of Blaine.) Blaine's jacket is hung over the kitchen chair, one arm sliding off, pulling the whole thing slowly towards the floor. Kurt catches it and fixes it, smoothing out the wrinkles in the shoulders.

“Baby…?” Kurt calls, the sentence cut off by muffled sniffles coming from the direction of the bedroom. Kurt's body reacts to the sound, his heart quickening, his palms sweating, his teeth grinding. He knew it. Someone from the club, or some other asshole that Blaine's way too nice to at work, followed Blaine home. Blaine is always afraid that'll happen. People were repeatedly taking advantage of him, forcing what they wanted on him. But Blaine's home is his sanctuary, and as far as Kurt knows, only he and Blaine have keys to it. If someone made it this far, if someone hurt him…

Kurt storms in, prepared to do some damage, but Blaine's alone, sitting on the end of his bed with a piece of paper in his hands, a torn envelope on the floor at his feet, the expression on his face – shock, nausea, and overwhelming distress.

Kurt is relieved to see him, safe and alone, but he doesn't feel any better about finding him this way. A man coming after Blaine, ready to physically hurt him, that Kurt can handle. But Kurt can't see anything wrong at first glance, except for the letter, wrinkled and watermarked, probably from tears.

It has to be the letter.

What the hell's in that letter?

“Blaine?” Kurt walks in carefully, approaching Blaine the way he does whenever Blaine is anxious or scared, like he's a lost and wounded French Bulldog. “Blaine, is everything alright?”

Hearing Kurt's voice causes Blaine to take a sudden breath, as if he had been holding it until Kurt came in, or as if time had stopped for Blaine, and Kurt, coming on to the scene late, hadn't noticed.

“Blaine…” Kurt takes a step toward the bed, not directly in front of Blaine, but to his right so he can sit beside him, “are you hurt? Do you need my help?”

“They didn't…” Blaine starts, the words a whisper, his voice raw from crying, maybe yelling.

“Who didn't what?” Kurt asks, eyes darting down, trying to get a peek at the letter, sure that all the answers are in there.

“He didn't…” Blaine says, and Kurt goes back to grinding his teeth. A guy. Some guy did this. Some guy wrote Blaine this letter and put him in this position. Kurt has had about enough of the guys in Blaine's life especially.

Except, Kurt's been the only guy in Blaine's life for a while now. So what he could Blaine mean?

If Kurt could get a peek, then he'd know who he'd have to kill, but Blaine's hands are closed around the letter, crumpling it more.

“Who, Blaine?” Kurt asks, hoping for a name, any name. Kurt knows about most of the assholes in Blaine's past. Just one name, and he could hit the ground running.

“My dad,” Blaine says, turning to look at Kurt. “He didn't…he didn't tell me that she…” Blaine stops. His lips quiver. He looks like he's trying to remember how to speak and breathe at the same time. “She died, Kurt. My…my mom's…she's dead.”

Blaine's body starts to collapse, curling in at the shoulders and falling forward, the note in his hands wadding as he brings his hands to his face. Kurt rescues the letter before Blaine rips it, and manages to put an arm around him as well, drawing him into the circle of his embrace.

“Oh, Blaine,” Kurt says, shushing him gently. “I'm sorry, baby. I'm so, so sorry.”

Kurt feels Blaine's body heave, and then he sobs, burying his head into his Dom's side and crying out everything inside of him – every ounce of strength, every tear, every single breath.

Kurt fumbles the crinkled letter in one hand, smoothing it out on the leg of his jeans and holding it up to his face. He hasn't seen this handwriting before, but it's neat and, if Kurt knew anything about analyzing handwriting, he would say somewhat pretentious.

“Hey, baby brother,” Kurt reads to himself. “I'm dropping you a line because I didn't see you at the funeral, and everyone is wondering where you've been.”

Kurt drops his head back on his neck. He wants to scream. What a fucking lead in. How the hell does anyone justify starting a letter like that? Kurt had thought better of Cooper. From what Blaine had told Kurt, he seemed like a standup guy - a little loopy and self-absorbed, but with a somewhat good head on his shoulders, and a particularly soft spot for Blaine. Then again, Blaine was way too sweet to judge anyone he loved harshly. For all Kurt knew, the real Cooper Anderson could be a self-centered douche who used his brother the same way everyone else did. Wasn't he the one that got Blaine caught up working for that scum bag in that dive piano bar downtown? Even if not, how could this prick be so insensitive?

“I wanted to call you, but I've been sort of incommunicado lately.” Kurt rolls his eyes. Cooper's an actor – a struggling actor as of late. He's been bunking at a friend's last Blaine heard, so he probably didn't have a cell phone. But he couldn't have sent a letter before this one?

“I asked dad if he'd heard from you, but he didn't have much to say. I take it you guys aren't exactly on speaking terms. Still, I would have thought you'd show for mom's funeral. You know how much she always cared about you. What happened between you and dad - that wasn't her fault. There wasn't anything she could have done about it. You know dad did this. But she stuck up for you, Blaine. You could have at least paid your last respects. She deserved it.”

Kurt puts the letter down. He can't read any more. He can't see Blaine crucified in print for something he didn't intentionally do.

Blaine and his parents had had a perfect relationship up until the fight at the Sadie Hawkins dance. Compared to Cooper, Blaine was his father's golden child - a talented musician, but on the fast track to a distinguished career in business, law, or medicine.

Blaine and his father hadn't decided on one yet.

When Blaine came out, he was comfortable telling his parents first. Blaine's mom didn't care, as long as her son was happy. Blaine's dad seemed to handle him being gay well enough, as long as he didn't act it, and as long as no one really knew. But no matter what, they loved their son. They'd go to any lengths to protect him. After Blaine was attacked, his parents jumped into action. They pulled him out school, pressed charges on the school and his attackers, and put Blaine into counseling.

Blaine's father wouldn't admit it out loud, but to a point he had hoped that this horrendous attack would be the thing to cure Blaine of his silly need to join this ridiculous trend of homosexuality. In the new, more academically stringent school that his parents found for him, they could put Blaine back on the road he had been on, and everything would go back to normal.

Blaine's father would get his golden child back, and the Anderson's would live happily ever after.

But when the hubbub died down and Blaine didn't go immediately back into the closet, his father started resenting him, especially when he began receiving attention for being brave, for being a survivor, for being active in the LGBT+ community on his new school campus.

When things changed again, when Blaine reverted and started shutting people out, his father was quick to pull away since he had a plausible excuse.

Everyone would blame Blaine. No one would blame him.

It was like the flipping of a switch, it happened so fast.

As far as Kurt knows, Blaine and his father haven't spoken for longer than ten minutes at a stretch in years, and most of those conversations were one-sided arguments – Blaine's father calling to make sure his son was still weak, still gay, and still a failure by his standards.

Kurt feels Blaine crumbling; with each sob he falls further and further apart. He feels all the work they've done unwinding, and he knows that they can't stay here. Blaine needs out. They need away from here. They need to go.

“Blaine?” Kurt bends to look in Blaine's eyes. “Blaine, we're going to go. I'm taking you away. For the next few days.”

Blaine looks up at Kurt with watery eyes, bloodshot but grateful, before he starts to dissolve again.

“I…I have students,” Blaine argues. “I have…”

“Nothing that can't be rearranged,” Kurt demands.

Blaine's whole body is trembling, but Kurt can very clearly feel him shake his head.

“B-but, I…”

“Blaine,” Kurt says sternly, pinching Blaine's chin with his thumb and forefinger, and staring deep in his eyes, “we're going. I'm not asking. I'm telling.”

Blaine looks dazed for a second, then he nods.

“Alright,” he says, wiping at his eyes with his fingertips. “Okay. I'll just call…”

“I'll take care of that,” Kurt says, cutting him short. “Just pack.”

“Yes, Sir,” Blaine says - and there he is. Blaine's sub side, taking over, following Kurt's direction, trusting Kurt to take care of him. Kurt gives Blaine a squeeze and a kiss on the top of his head.

He does it without thinking, but he can't take it back now, so he lets it go.

“Are you going to be alright in here alone while I take care of business?”

“Yes, Sir,” Blaine answers quietly, sitting up. “I'll be fine.”

“Good,” Kurt says, unwinding his arm and letting go. “I'll just be a second, so pack fast.”

“I will, Sir.”

Kurt rushes through the house to Blaine's office and sits at Blaine's desk. Kurt's only been in this room a handful of times. It's starker than the rest of the house, and reminds him of the office of a medical specialist – like the oncologist he and his parents had to talk to when Kurt was eight and his mother was dying of breast cancer.

Regardless to say, Kurt's not very fond of Blaine's office, but when Blaine wants to be dominated in there, Kurt does it without any complaints.

Blaine's life is so set, so organized, that Kurt can find everything he needs without having to ask. Blaine keeps his calendar open on his laptop, which sits dead center of his blotter. It's not passworded, which Kurt doesn't exactly approve of, but Blaine doesn't take his laptop anywhere. He still plans on debating that with Blaine when he's up to it, but for the moment, he's thankful.

Kurt goes through Blaine's calendar, clicking on the full boxes (which ends up being Monday through Friday, and half of Saturday) and starts calling students.

“Yes, Mrs. Kazinski? Yes, hello. I'm calling on behalf of Blaine Anderson. Your daughter Haley has a violin lesson with him tomorrow at two? Yes, he's going to have to cancel. There's been a death in the family…Thank you. I'll let him know.”

“Mr. Cavanaugh? My name is Kurt Hummel, calling on behalf of Blaine Anderson. Your son Peter has a piano lesson scheduled for Thursday at one. I'm going to need to cancel. There's been a death in the family…”

“Hello, Ms. Daly…”

“Ms. Kerrigan, hi…”

“My name is Kurt Hummel, and I'm looking for Margaret Simmons? Are you Margaret Simmons?”

Kurt calls approximately 15 students in all, and speaks to three machines. If Kurt hadn't appreciated how devoted Blaine was to teaching before, he definitely does now. His private lessons barely cover the cost of putting food on his table, but he gives them anyway.

That's the definition of labor of love.

Kurt looks at the screen of Blaine's laptop, the row of boxes cleared of their names and dates, and wonders – does this qualify?

What Kurt does for Blaine – he knows it's above and beyond.

He hates making phone calls.

He rarely does pickups.

He doesn't play Daddy to anyone else.

He holds Blaine in the highest regard, and he actually looks forward to the time they spend together, even though he knows it will end in coloring most likely, which he hates.

But does that mean he loves Blaine?

He feels like it does. Maybe this trip will give Kurt the opportunity to find out.

He doesn't even know why he thought of it. Any other sub, he'd recommend extra sessions. But he watched Blaine losing his grip on reality, and knew the man needed to get away.

And Kurt wanted to be there for him when he did.

No, Kurt needed to.

Kurt had only planned on taking Blaine away for a few days, three at the most, but he clears Blaine's week, just in case. He has the start of a plan forming in his head – to get Blaine away, but also to try and fix this, in some tiny measure.

He knows Blaine enough to know what he needs to do; it's the delivery he's hoping won't be too difficult to pull off.

Kurt walks down the hallway to check on Blaine and hears him crying again. He finds Blaine sitting where he left him, staring down at his hands, suitcase open, with a single pair of black socks inside. Kurt's heart clenches. Even if he didn't have these complicated emotions for Blaine – emotions that make his stomach spin and his head whirl, feelings that make him want to hold Blaine when he might normally tell anyone else to, “Buck up and deal with it” – he knows how Blaine feels. He remembers all those times he sat by his mother's bed in the hospital, praying she would get better, that the radiation would work the way it was supposed to this time around. Or when he sat by his father's bed, after he had his heart attack, unconscious, a teenage Kurt sure he would never wake up.

“Blaine?” He walks a few steps in and sees that while Blaine looks like he's staring down at his empty hands, he's actually looking at a photograph of him and his mom on the teacup ride at Disney. Blaine, probably only eight or nine, is pulling on the steering wheel, spinning the cup as fast he can, while his mom has her head thrown back, eyes squinted shut, hair blowing, laughing to the point of tears.

Kurt reaches for Blaine's hand, carefully curling his fingers around it in a way that doesn't disrupt the picture.

“I'm going to go ahead and get this finished for you,” Kurt says quietly, hoping he's not losing Blaine as time goes on. “Then I'm going to put everything into my Navigator, and we're going to go. Alright?”

Blaine nods. He's too tired to talk. If Kurt wasn't there, he'd just sit on his bed till nightfall, and then keep sitting until tomorrow. Then tomorrow…well Blaine isn't sure what would happen then.

Kurt sets to work, like he did in the office. He packs the suitcase with clothes – jeans, shirts, bowties, pajamas, socks, underwear, and Blaine's toiletries. From underneath Blaine's bed, Kurt pulls out two more bags. He loads one up with Blaine's favorite toys, vibrators, plugs, floggers, cuffs, the things that bring him relief; the go-to items he chooses the most. In the other, Kurt stuffs comfort items: his red blanket, his lion stuffie, his favorite movies (because Kurt doesn't own any of the crap that Blaine watches), his iPod, and the framed photographs he keeps on the nightstand by his bed – pictures of him with his brother Cooper, as children and as adults; pictures of Blaine singing with his choir in high school; a sweaty, shirtless Blaine standing in the ring after winning a boxing match, a referee holding Blaine's gloved hand up in the air while a crowded auditorium is on their feet, applauding (that one is Kurt's favorite); and an old family portrait the Anderson Clan had taken over Christmas when Blaine was about twelve. As Kurt loads them into the bag, something small and thin falls from the corner of one of the frames. It seems so insignificant, he'd never noticed it before. He debates leaving it, but it has to be important to Blaine if it was right by his bed, so he reaches down and picks it up. He knows it's photo paper the second he touches it. He figures it's a snapshot or something, maybe from one of those photo booths in the mall.

Until he turns it over.

It's a picture of him. Of his face. He recognizes it right away. It's from his website. Blaine had printed up the picture of Kurt's face from his homepage.

But Kurt changed that picture months ago.

Even though you can't really take anything off of the Internet once it's there, Blaine might have printed it months ago. It's not uncommon for subs to get attached to their Doms, but could Blaine have fallen for him?

And that long ago?

Kurt wants to think about that, but he doesn't have the time. Maybe he can consider it on the drive. He shoves the square photo in the corner of the portrait frame and stuffs it in the bag.

“Come with me,” Kurt says, shouldering the smaller bags and grabbing the suitcase. “I don't want you in here alone.”

Blaine doesn't answer, but he obeys, getting off the bed and following his Dom through the house, fixing his own infractions along the way – putting his coffee mug in the sink, picking up his house keys, and tidying the mail.

“Good boy, Blaine,” Kurt says every time he stops to fix something, even if it does eat into their time, but these little things are important.

They're tiny signs that inside Blaine is a man who's still fighting, who's eventually going to be okay.

Kurt leads Blaine out of the house, pausing at the door to lock it behind them. His sub waits patiently, not inclined to go on ahead to Kurt's SUV, and not because he hasn't been commanded to. Blaine needs Kurt. He trusts Kurt. Whatever Kurt has planned, Blaine's along for the ride, because he's known for a while now that Kurt has his best interests at heart.

Blaine's been with Kurt longer than he has been with any other Dom.

With any other person in his life, really.

And he doesn't want that to change.

“Let's get you in the Navigator,” Kurt says, lugging the bags to his vehicle and gesturing for Blaine to climb inside. “We're going to be driving for a couple of hours before we get to our destination, so do you want anything before we leave? A snack? A juice box? Your blanket?”

“No, Sir,” Blaine says, climbing into the passenger seat. He reaches for the seat belt, but Kurt gets it before Blaine does. “I'm alright.”

Kurt looks in Blaine's face, into his hazel eyes that are normally glowing every time Kurt sees him. But they're more dull now, his body slumped to one side of his seat, his hands still clutching that photograph in his palm.

“Blaine,” Kurt says, “I want you to listen to me. Everything's going to be alright. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Sir,” Blaine says, monotone.

“Do you believe me?”

Blaine swallows hard before he answers.

“Yes, Sir,” he says.

Kurt knows that's a harder question for Blaine to answer. This trust Blaine has in Kurt, it seemed to come on suddenly, but that's because Blaine is a naturally obedient sub, so willing to be pleasing and to serve. But the truth is earning Blaine's complete and utter trust took Kurt a while – not as long as he thinks, but it still took some time - and they've gotten to the point where Blaine trusts Kurt with everything: his property, his schedule, his mind, and his body.

“Good,” Kurt says, checking Blaine's seat belt one last time. “Just sit back and try to relax. Go to sleep if you can. When we get to where we're going, we'll get to work.”

Blaine nods sleepily. He'd been exhausted for hours before Kurt got there, but he waited. After he read that letter, he needed to see Kurt before he could move forward, think rationally again, or fall to pieces – whichever one came first.

Kurt closes the door for Blaine, realizing this would have been the perfect moment to kiss him, but if that's what their relationship is about to become, it'll have to wait. He climbs into the driver's seat of his SUV, and without another word, pulls out of the drive, heading towards the highway. Plans come together quickly, solidifying in his head as he takes the road that will lead them home.