He sits on Cooper’s neatly made bed, legs folded underneath him and his arms tucked around his chest as Cooper moves restlessly about the room, making sure he hasn’t forgotten anything. He hasn’t, of course; he’s too meticulous and organized to leave anything behind.

His restlessness runs deeper than a forgotten toothbrush.

Leaving Blaine is the hardest thing Cooper has ever done. He’d gotten into all of the colleges he applied for, from Yale to Princeton, but he agreed to complete his undergraduate degree at Harvard, his father’s alma mater, with the understanding that he’ll be allowed to go off to California, to Stanford, for graduate work. As long as that graduate work is in law. It’s still California though. It’s not Ohio.

But Harvard means Massachusetts – at least a 13-hour drive from Ohio. As wealthy as they are, he’s not going to ask his parents to fly him home whenever his heart aches for it, and that means no weekend visits home.

No Saturday mornings waking to find Blaine in his bed, nose-to-nose, breath moist against his face, waiting for him to get up and make them hot chocolate and pancakes. No nights seated at the kitchen table, working on homework assignments together: Blaine with his math workbooks, forehead scrunched adorably in concentration, pencil tapping rhythmically against the paper, and Cooper with his notes for his latest world history essay.

Blaine’s pencil tapping infuriates their father, who quickly retires to his study when they pull homework out to escape the noise, but Cooper finds it soothing – sounding so much like the familiar metronome. He often finds himself typing to the rhythm in Blaine’s head, his own foot a counter-beat under the table.

Massachusetts means giving up piano practice with Blaine, trying to hold back his laughter the rare times Blaine makes a mistake and smashes his little fists down on the keys, creating a cacophony of jangled notes that draws their mother into the room to see what’s going on. Harvard means ending their impromptu fencing lessons, long hours spent helping Blaine adjust his stance, muscles working hard at the unfamiliar motions, at the expense of his own practice time.

It means going months, months without singing with Blaine, his baby brother with the big voice and infectious smile that breaks out across his face every time he hits a difficult note or gets the phrasing just right. It means months without dancing in front of the TV in their pajamas to Disney movies and grainy black and white musicals, far past Blaine’s bedtime.

It means everything.

“So you’re not coming back?” Blaine asks, still perched small and curled in protectively around himself on the edge of Cooper’s bed.

Cooper crouches down in front of Blaine, reaching out and taking Blaine’s wrists in his hands, unfolding his arms from his chest.

“Of course I’m coming back. It’s just going to be a while before we see each other again.”

Blaine sniffs, tears coming to his eyes, clumping his dark eyelashes. “I don’t want you to go anywhere. I want you here.”

“I want me here too, Blainers, but I can’t.” Cooper rises up and gathers Blaine into his arms, holding him close. His brother is still so small - dark, curly head not even reaching to his chest yet. He hopes Blaine will grow sooner rather than later; high school is hard enough without being the smallest kid in the class.

“Don’t call me that.” Blaine’s voice is thick and muffled in the fabric of his shirt.

“Blainers,” he whispers, because he can, and strokes the mass of curls back from Blaine’s forehead. Cooper can feel hot tears soak through his shirt and his heart contracts painfully. He can’t do this. Can’t leave his Blaine alone with their parents. All of their attention, their need for perfection and order and obedience, will get focused on Blaine - Blaine who is everything bright and effervescent in the world, who feels it all to his core and now Cooper isn’t going to be there to shield him from it.

Cooper bends down and presses a kiss to the top of Blaine’s head before drawing back.

“Hey,” he says, tipping Blaine’s tear-streaked face up with gentle fingers. “It’s not goodbye forever, is it?”

Blaine sniffs and scrubs at his nose with his sleeve. “No, not forever.”

“Here, I want you to have this.” Cooper tugs Blaine over to his recently emptied dresser and pulls out the last thing left in it – their grandfather’s silver pocket watch.

Blaine’s eyes widen and his mouth falls open a little. “But it’s yours.” His eyes are dark with wonder.

“I know. And now I’m giving it to you.” Cooper secures the chain to Blaine’s belt loop and tucks the watch into his pocket.

“Whenever you miss me, you can take this out and it’ll be like I’m here with you.”

“But you won’t be.”

“But it’ll feel like I am.”

Blaine’s thick eyebrows furrow as he touches the lump in his pocket and suddenly his face brightens with a thought, a realization.

“Then you should take something with you. Wait here.” Blaine wiggles free of Cooper’s arms and scampers out of the room. Cooper hears bare feet on hardwood floors and then a loud thump before Blaine comes running back into his room, something bright clenched in his fist.

“Here.” Blaine thrusts his hand out. In his grip is his favorite bowtie – gaudy, garish pink and too large for his body. He tried to wear it to school once, but their father stopped him before he’d made it halfway down the stairs to breakfast.

“Blaine,” Cooper whispers past the lump in his throat. He can feel hot tears welling in own eyes and he swallows thickly, forcing them back. He wants to say something, anything, to make Blaine understand.

“Thank you,” is what he says. “I’ll wear it whenever I miss you.”

“So you’ll wear it a lot?”

Cooper enfolds Blaine’s body back into his arms. “I’ll wear it all the time.”