Mr. Hummel, Blaine thinks. This is Kurt’s father. The panic he’d been holding at bay all throughout the flight surges in him and his shoulders snap back, his posture straightens. He’s so tense it hurts. Kurt’s fingers find his and squeeze comfortingly.

It’s going to be ok, passes unspoken between them. Blaine wants to relax, to let the touch of Kurt’s fingers, the warmth of him at his side, soothe him, but he can’t unlock his muscles. He met Howard Schultz once, during a planned surprise visit to his store; this is worse. This is so much worse.

“Hey, kid,” Mr. Hummel says, and his voice is deeper and gruffer than Kurt’s ever is, but the smile that lights up his face is achingly familiar to Blaine. “Good to see you.”

“Dad.” Kurt’s fingers slide from Blaine’s as he rushes to his father and gets enveloped in a massive hug. Blaine watches them with an ache in his chest. His brother hugs him every time they’re together, but it’s not quite the same. Cooper isn’t his father, no matter how hard he tries to be. He’s the best Blaine’s got though.

“Dad,” Kurt says as he draws back from his father. “I want you to meet someone.” His eyes find Blaine, sea-blue in the grey of winter and so incredibly happy it makes Blaine’s throat tighten against some unnamable emotion.

This is it, Blaine thinks, and he resists the almost overwhelming urge to run his hands through his hair and straighten out his clothes. He’d gotten dressed with care that morning before their flight - pressed jeans (an iron had somehow shown up in his closet one morning, and Kurt’s denied any involvement with it ever since), a white button-down shirt, and a blue sweater over it. He’d found a grey blazer that sat well on his shoulders and pulled that on too, even though he knew he’d get too warm in so many layers, but he wanted to make a good first impression. He needed to. Blaine had wanted to put a tie on, but Kurt had shaken his head, lips quirking with amusement, and told him that they just weren’t that formal.

“Maybe for Christmas dinner,” he’d murmured as he took the tie from Blaine’s fingers and tossed it aside. “But probably not even then.” The kisses he’d pressed to Blaine’s cheek, and then his mouth, were sweet and lingering.

“This is Blaine Anderson,” Kurt says, and the note of pride in his voice makes Blaine’s palms sweat and his heart thump even louder than it already is.

“So,” Mr. Hummel looks Blaine up and down, and Blaine shivers under the scrutiny. His shoulders square even tighter under the gaze; he knows he’s going to be found wanting. He’s never going to be good enough for Kurt’s father. His knees feel weak and shaky and he wipes his hands on the edge of his jacket as discretely as possible. “This is the boyfriend, huh?”

“Yes, dad. This is my boyfriend.” Kurt’s voice is fond and adoring, and the sound of it, the very words my boyfriend spilling from his lips, eases some of the tension coiling tight and painful through Blaine.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir,” Blaine says, mustering up his courage and stepping forward with his hand extended. He pales when Mr. Hummel shakes his head. There’s a little grin on his face that Blaine recognizes from Kurt. It’s the one that says, “you’re kind of ridiculous, aren’t you?” Blaine knows what it means coming from Kurt; he’s afraid of what it says coming from Kurt’s father.

“None of that nonsense - come here, son.” And then Mr. Hummel’s arms are around him, solid and impossibly, improbably reassuring. Blaine freezes. People don’t touch him, not really. When you hide from people long enough, they learn to leave you alone. His brother, and now Kurt, are really the only ones who freely offer touch, who demand it in return. But Blaine’s nose is pressed to Mr. Hummel’s shoulder and he smells motor oil and grease, and under that, the sharp tang of glycerin and witch hazel.

He makes his own aftershave, Blaine thinks, a little stupidly. But Mr. Hummel is clapping his back with his huge, strong hands and squeezing him tight, and Blaine can’t remember the last time his own father hugged him, if he ever did.

“I already told you,” Mr. Hummel says, drawing back, but he leaves one hand on Blaine’s shoulder. The weight of it is grounding. “Call me Burt.” His eyes are a hazel green, the color nothing like Kurt’s, but the kindness, the openness is there. Blaine figures it must be a Hummel trait.

Blaine swallows and doesn’t wipe his sweating palms on his thighs like he wants to. “Yes, Burt.”

“All right then.” Burt finally lets go of Blaine and fishes his keys out of his pocket. “Let’s get out of this damn weather and back home where it’s nice and toasty. I’m sure you boys must be hungry. There’s more than enough in the fridge, if you can get to it past that giant turkey.” Burt takes Blaine’s little carry-on suitcase and puts it into the back of the Escalade before Blaine can protest.

“He likes you,” Kurt whispers, sweet and joyful in his ear. “I told you he would.” Kurt presses a warm, lingering kiss to his cheek and rubs his back a little before getting into the car.

I’ve met the parent, Blaine thinks, suddenly giddy with it. It’s just one more milestone he’s achieved with Kurt, because of Kurt, that he never thought he would.

***

Blaine spends the drive to the Hummel residence in relative silence, listening to the chatter and banter of the father and son in the front seats as the snow-covered countryside slides past the windows. Burt is genial and affable, easy to like; he asks questions as if he cares and listens to the answers because he does. It’s so very clear that Kurt talks to his father often, and that he tells his father everything. Burt knows about Kurt’s job - his coworkers, his deadlines, his projects. He’s heard all the little incidents and anecdotes from Kurt’s day - interesting people he passed on the Subway, the tourist who asked him how to get to Times Square while standing on 42nd and Broadway. And he knows about Blaine. He knows how they met, and that Kurt asked him out first. He knows about the gala that Kurt took Blaine to, how they danced at the end. Blaine just hopes that Burt doesn’t know what they did afterwards.

Burt includes Blaine in the conversation, even though he’s in the backseat, throwing questions and comments back over his shoulder.

“So, Blaine. Kurt’s told me about your job and all the crazy customers you have to put up with. And you’re in grad school, right? That’s really something to be proud of.”

“Yes, sir - Burt. It’s the graduate musical theatre writing program at Tisch.” Blaine can’t hide the pride in his voice when he says it. Sometimes he still can’t believe that he was accepted to the program, and that he’s doing as well as he is. He knows he has some measure of talent musical theatre, he wouldn’t have gotten into the program if he didn’t, and he wouldn’t have won that contest in high school either. But it’s another thing to hear it straight from his professors, from the very people he looks up to and admires. He holds every glowing remark about his assignments, and every word of praise deep inside of him, where they warm him when the worry and the fear start to creep in.

Blaine tells Burt insane Starbucks customer interaction stories, choosing the ones he thinks someone like Burt will appreciate the most. He tells Burt about the bicyclist who pulled a sweaty, crumpled twenty-dollar bill from his biking shorts and tried to pay for his iced Americano with it. He’d gotten the drink on the house. Blaine recounts the story of the businesswoman who came in, tottering on heels too high for her, phone in one hand, bag in the other, and asked Blaine to stir the granola into her yogurt for her. Burt’s loud, barking laughter, echoing through the car, settles Blaine’s nervous stomach and eases some of the tension in his bones.

Burt’s house is down a cute, tree-lined street. It’s not the busiest road, but it’s been recently plowed, and Burt pulls into his driveway with ease. There’s a big green wreath with a red and gold bow hanging on the front door. The panic that had subsided during the drive rises up in Blaine again, but Kurt takes his hand and squeezes encouragingly.

It’s warm inside, and cozy. The house isn’t huge, but it’s comfortable for a father and son. The furniture is mostly mismatched, and clearly well loved. But it’s comfortable. It’s very obviously a home, not just a house. There are pictures all over the walls and on the mantle over the fireplace of Kurt - as a kid, a teenager, and more recent ones. Blaine lingers on a photo of Kurt at his high school graduation, surrounded by friends, and smiling so brightly that Blaine can’t help but smile at it in return. He wonders what it would have been like to know Kurt in school.

The house is decorated for Christmas. There’s a big beautiful tree, a Fraser Fir, in the living room, done up in tinsel and lights and all sorts of decorations that shine and glimmer. Evergreen boughs set off with big red bows travel up the length of the staircase banister and drape along the fireplace mantle, just above two stockings that hang, empty and waiting to be filled. They’re slightly off-center, as though they’ve been shoved aside, making room for another. It smells of forest and sap, of winter nights curled in front of a fire with marshmallow-filled hot chocolate. It smells of Christmas and of family. Blaine closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

“You ok?” Kurt asks, quiet and cautious next to him, and Blaine realizes he’s standing still in the middle of Mr. Hummel’s living room.

“Yeah,” Blaine smiles at him. “I really am.” He leans in and presses a soft kiss to Kurt’s mouth, smiling wider at Kurt’s surprised, pleased little noise.

“Why don’t you show Blaine to your old room, Kurt?” Burt’s voice breaks through. He sounds amused, but Blaine flushes to the tips of his ears. Five minutes in Mr. Hummel’s home and he’s managed to get caught doing what no one wants to get caught at. He really is an idiot, and Burt’s going to realize it any moment. “Get your stuff put away and I’ll rustle us up something to eat.”

“My room?” Kurt asks, cocking his head in confusion a little.

“Well yeah. He’s not going to sleep on the sofa, is he?”

“No, I just, I just thought,” Kurt trails off with a little hand gesture, and Blaine looks on in amazement as a blush stains his cheeks a lovely shade of pink. “There’s the guest room.”

Burt just shrugs and resettles his worn cap on his head. He’s taken his heavy jacket off and underneath he’s wearing a flannel shirt. “You’re adults, you know? I’m your father, and this is my house, and I’m saying it’s fine. You probably don’t want to argue this with me, do you?”

Blaine feels too hot and as though his clothes are too tight. There is no way this conversation is going on around him, under Kurt’s father’s roof, no less.

“Thanks, dad.” Kurt takes his hand again, and strokes a thumb across his knuckles. “We’ll be two minutes.” He draws Blaine towards the staircase that leads up to his old bedroom. Blaine follows, because he can’t do anything else.

“Good,” Burt calls after them. “Because I’m hungry, and I’ve saved some decorations for you boys to put on that tree.”

***

There’s a coffee maker on the kitchen counter, just a basic 12-cup pot, but Blaine thinks, given a little creativity, he can brew Burt the best cup of coffee he’s had in a while. Burt doesn’t strike him as a man who craves the simple beauty of a macchiato, or the practiced complexity of a perfect cappuccino. But Blaine can picture Burt with a mug of fresh-brewed coffee and the morning paper, maybe with a little milk, no sugar. Blaine makes a note to wake up early the next morning and do just that. He can probably get some breakfast going too - he knows how to bake bread and scramble eggs. Almost everyone likes those things. He tries not to think about the fact that he’ll be waking up in Kurt’s old bed, safe under Kurt’s soft sheets and thick blankets, with Kurt pressed warm and close to him. And that it will be Christmas Eve.

Burt’s made them sandwiches - thick-cut chicken with avocado and gruyere cheese he’s toasted on a panini maker that Kurt surely must have given to him as a gift. Blaine’s desperate to help - to set the table, to pour drinks - anything to feel less like he’s freeloading and coasting on Burt’s infinite kindness. But Burt just sits him down in a chair around the kitchen table, next to Kurt, and sets a plate down in front of him.

“Eat up, kid.” He claps Blaine on the shoulder before taking a seat on the other side.

“This is really great, Mr. Hummel. Burt,” Blaine corrects himself at Burt’s raised eyebrow.

“It’s just been me and Kurt for a long time. You learn to cook fast.”

Blaine nods in understanding. Before Cooper left, he was the one to do most of the cooking. And after, Blaine remembers frustrated phone calls to the West Coast trying to figure why the meat wasn’t cooking properly or why the dough wasn’t rising.

“So,” Burt begins. “Where’re you from? Kurt’s never said.”

“Uhm, Bridgeport, Connecticut, originally.” Blaine sets the crust of his sandwich down. He needs to clasp his hands together to hide the slight tremble. He knows where conversations like this inevitably end up. “But my mom, she actually moved out here when I - when my parents separated. She moved to Westerville - there was an aunt, I think, who lived there.”

“Westerville’s not far from here at all.”

“No, it’s not.” Blaine licks his lips. His mouth is dry. “There was a time when - well I almost went with her. There’s a school in Westerville. They have a reputation for academic excellence, and they offer boarding, so I wouldn’t have been a bigger burden to my mom and her aunt, but-” Blaine swallows and twists the ring on his middle finger. For everything he’s told Kurt, there’s so much he hasn’t. He feels like he can though, now.

“It was expensive, and I couldn’t - my father, he told me to go, if I wanted. But he wouldn’t finance it - not the school, not the move. He didn’t, uhm - he didn’t want me around, but he wasn’t going to pay for me to go running off to mom. And mom couldn’t afford it. And I - I couldn’t ask my brother. He - he offered, begged me to let him, but I couldn’t. So I stayed.” Blaine can’t look up; he doesn’t want to see the pity in their eyes. He doesn’t think he could take it.

There’s a silent pause where Blaine can feel Kurt and his father staring at him, judging, questioning. He feels like he wants to vomit.

“So,” Kurt says, and he reaches across the table to take Blaine’s hand. “We might have known each other before, in a different life.”

Blaine tries not to think about all the ways he might not have ever met Kurt - all the choices, the myriad paths that led him to where he is now.

“She might still be out there, my mom. I don’t know. I don’t have her number or anything, and honestly, I don’t care to know.”

She left, he thinks. It’s done. He didn’t understand why at first, but he does know. There’s only so much one soul can take, and not every soul is made of the same stuff.

“Son,” Burt says. “You got dealt a low hand, didn’t you?”

“I...” Blaine doesn’t know what to say. There are many doors Blaine has shut and doesn’t intend to open. “It just is. The past is a different country, you know? I moved on. I left for New York the second I could and I’ve never looked back. It hasn’t been easy, and it’s still not easy. It probably never will be, but,” Blaine looks down at his hand, held fast by Kurt’s. He can say this.

“Mr. Hummel. Burt. Your son came into my life when - when I didn’t even know I needed him. I was just barely hanging on, and I didn’t even realize it. He’s changed everything for me. Everything. And even if - I’ll always - I,” Blaine squeezes his eyes shut and almost groans aloud in frustration. He’ll never find the words to adequately explain.

I will be in love with him forever, he thinks, but it’s not the time to say.

Blaine looks up to find Burt staring at him with such intensity that he feels it in his bones. Burt’s eyes are all-too-knowing, and Blaine thinks he sees understanding.

“He’s an exceptional man, my Kurt,” Burt says in his deep, gruff voice that manages to convey such love and affection for his son.

“He really, really is,” Blaine looks over at Kurt, whose eyes are so bright in his face it’s hard to meet his gaze. Blaine wants to tell him everything. “I’m so grateful for him.” It’s all he can say then.

But the way Kurt’s lips twitch before he lifts Blaine’s hand up and brushes a soft kiss across his knuckles makes Blaine wonder if Kurt already knows.