Rachel stared out the window longingly.

Outside, the day was beautiful and clear, the perfect muggy July afternoon. She could see the fountain from her spot inside and the cool water had never looked more inviting. She entertained the idea of going swimming in it briefly, then discarded it, blushing. How unladylike, swimming in a fountain!�

She sighed again. She wished Sam were here already. She hadn’t seem him in a year and she loved Sam quite dearly. Not as much as Kurt, but she and Kurt shared many more personality quirks and goals, so it was only understandable that she would favor him. All the same, Sam was her older brother and she adored him, even if he had been away for awhile.

She wished Kurt would have been willing to do another practice session, but after running through their duet all morning, he’d ended their practice with a huff and a promise that they’d do one more before the actual performance. Rachel wasn’t satisfied. She wanted everything to be perfect for Sam. More than that, she wanted to be perfect for Sam. Her parents and Kurt heard her perform too often to give an adequate amount of appreciation anymore, and she hoped that his long absence would mean Sam would have forgotten how hopelessly talented his baby sister was, thus leaving him in awe of her voice.

Rachel jerked her head when she caught movement out of the corner of her eye and smiled involuntarily when she saw Kurt heading towards the fountain, with what looked like a vase tucked under one arm. She didn’t know what he was doing with the vase - had someone gathered flowers? That would explain why he was dipping it into the fountain to gather water--

From the other side of the garden, Blaine suddenly appeared and approached Kurt. Rachel jumped and Kurt, from what Rachel could see, did as well, dropping the vase.�

Rachel watched, wide-eyed and fascinated, as Kurt and Blaine talked. Blaine approached where Kurt had been sitting on the edge of the fountain and picked something up - Rachel guessed that maybe it was a piece of the vase. Mama will be so angry, she thought. Mama hated it when anything in the household broke. She couldn’t see Blaine’s face - his back was to the window - but Kurt looked angry, his face red in the way it only got when he was either embarrassed or furious. And, as she watched, Blaine backed away and Kurt began to strip off his jacket, then--then his pants, what was he doing--

Blaine was looking to the side now, and Rachel could only see bits and pieces of him: the way his eyebrow dipped, the curve of his down turned mouth. She looked back over at Kurt and gasped when she saw he’d disappeared. Where is he? she thought, just as Kurt suddenly surfaced from the fountain and pulled himself over the edge, standing there clad only in his white button-up shirt and undershorts, both of which were so soaked that even Rachel could almost see through them all the way from the house--

Kurt stood there for a long moment. Rachel was staring, she knew, but she couldn’t stop. What was he doing, what was going on? Blaine had turned to face Kurt again, so Rachel couldn’t see his face. For the longest moment, they stood there, staring at each other. Rachel, for some reason, held her breath.

Then Kurt jumped off the side of the fountain and began collecting his clothes hurriedly. He drew them up over his wet body and then stalked off past Blaine, grabbing something from his hand. Rachel let out her breath and stared at the frozen figure of Blaine. For a long moment, he just stood there: then he moved towards the fountain. He sat on the edge and leaned over - Rachel moved forward until her nose was pressed against the glass of the window, but she couldn’t see what he was doing. Blaine hurriedly stood again and nearly ran away from the fountain, heading back towards the house in the opposite direction Kurt had taken, probably to the servant quarters.

Rachel stared at the empty fountain, nonplussed, wondering what on Earth had just happened.

-

Kurt didn’t like wildflowers much. Or, at least, he didn’t like picking them. He had a thing about bees, and for some reason bees loved wildflowers.�

But he’d been heading home after a long walk and the flowers had just been there, so Kurt had taken them. Mostly because Sam was coming home and flowers brightened things up a bit. Kurt brought the bunch of flowers in his hand up to his nose to smell as he stepped inside his house’s cool interior. Having the weight of the sun off of his back was a blessing - they had reached mid-summer, and the weather was reflecting that. It had been nothing but hazy, hot days for the past week.�

Kurt managed to find a vase inside that wasn’t already being used - Carole’s favorite vase, the one she’d received from her mother on her first wedding day. He frowned down at the waterless inside and sighed. He would have to go down to the kitchen and fill it--

A flash of movement caught his eye and he turned to look out the large bay windows that overlooked the garden. His throat tightened when he saw Blaine off to the side, lounging on the steps to the house, cigarette in his hand. Kurt could see Blaine take the butt up to his mouth and for a moment--

The sound of a doorknob turning, the creak of a door--

Two bodies moving heavily together, books falling to the ground--

“Kurt, wait, stop, I’m sorry--I’m sorry you had to see that--”

Kurt turned on his heel, breath fluttering in his throat. Go away, he instructed the memories sternly, but they lingered. Kurt bit his lip, then grabbed his face and stormed out of the room. At the last minute, he changed his direction from the kitchen to the steps that led to the lawn.�

He tried to ignore Blaine on the steps as he passed, but Blaine jumped up to meet him as Kurt approached. A friendly smile played at the edge of his lips, and his half-smoked cigarette was in his hand. Kurt turned his attention to the cigarette.

“Share a snipe with me?” he asked Blaine brusquely, refusing to look him in the eye.

“I’d better not,” Blaine said. Kurt could tell from his voice that he was still smiling. Blaine always smiled. It drove Kurt insane. “Jesse warned me not to give them to you.”

Kurt’s shoulders tightened. “You’ve been talking with Jesse?” he asked, more sharply than he meant to.

“He comes over a lot,” Blaine said, sounding puzzled. “Sometimes he stops by to say hello.”

Kurt bit his lip. Jesse knew--

“I see,” he bit out brusquely. “Don’t you have some gardening to be doing or something?”

He strode off hurriedly and his shoulders relaxed when he didn’t hear Blaine following him. He reached the fountain and sat down, staring at his reflection in the water. Too pale, he thought. Kurt was always pale. He burned in the sun and when the sunburn peeled away, it took all traces of a tan with it. Kurt picked up the vase and brought it down to scoop up some of the fountain water.

There was a footstep behind him and Kurt jumped, hitting the vase on the side of the fountain and making it crack. Kurt watched, open-mouthed with surprise, as the vase broke away from the handle and drifted to the bottom of the fountain, where he heard it crack. He whirled around on his heel and glared at Blaine, who looked apologetic.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to frighten you--”

“You oaf,” Kurt snarled. “That was Carole’s favorite vase! And now it’s broken! Because of you!”

Blaine held his hands up. “I am sorry,” he said again. Blaine moved forward and grabbed the handle piece from Kurt’s hand, turning it over. He winced. “Oh. This is Ms. Hummel’s mother’s vase, isn’t it?” He bit his lip. Kurt attempted to not be distracted. “She won’t be happy.” He looked down at where Kurt was sitting and his eyes crinkled with sudden amusement. “You can blame me, if you want.”

Kurt glared at him. “Oh trust me, I will.”�

Flustered, he looked away from Blaine towards the fountain. He leaned over and attempted to grab the vase, but the water was too deep, and his fingertips only brushed it. Kurt cursed, not for the first time, his family’s need to make everything in their home extravagant and huge. The fountain should have been much shallower, but his father had insisted on making it ridiculously deep.�

“I’ll have to go in and get it,” Kurt murmured consideringly.

Beside him, Blaine stiffened. “No need,” he said lightly. “We can leave it there--”

Kurt frowned at him. “Carole’s mother’s vase,” he reminded Blaine. “No we can’t.” He swung one leg over the side of the fountain.

“Are you going to get your clothes wet?” Blaine asked softly. Kurt looked over at him and his body flushed at the look in Blaine’s eyes - focused, intent on him, with something underneath--

“Would you prefer I go in naked?” he asked, an edge to his voice. Blaine’s eyes darkened. Kurt’s heart was stuck in his throat, and his face flushed. “Fine,” he half-whispered.�

He stood and stripped off his button-up. He was torn between looking over at Blaine and avoiding his eyes as he unbuttoned his trousers. Kurt could feel Blaine’s eyes on him, and his entire body was flushed, wanting . . . . He tried to shake the feelings away. He’d promised himself. But then Kurt looked up and caught Blaine’s dark eyes, the way he was biting his bottom lip, the tight grip he had on the broken handle . . . . For a long, breathless moment, Kurt felt like he was going to get ravished. And, more than anything, he wanted it.

Blaine looked away. The moment disappeared and Kurt could breathe again.�

He turned away from Blaine, dazed and only slightly conscious about his half-naked state, and climbed onto the edge of the fountain before jumping in. The water rushed over his head, lusciously cool after the heat of the day and--and Blaine, and for a moment, Kurt considered just staying there, under the water, where his thoughts about Blaine would never trouble him again. His hand brushed against something sharp and he was brought back to himself. Blindly, he reached out and gathered the cracked vase in his arm before he resurfaced, feeling the sun beating down upon his head as he came up to the open air. With his eyes closed, sun on his body, submerged in cool, clean water, Kurt felt almost at peace.�

Then he opened his eyes and saw Blaine.

Blaine, who was watching him again, body tense and eyes burning. Kurt felt something in him rise up to the look on Blaine’s face and, careful of the vase in his hand, he swung himself up on the ledge of the fountain, displaying his wet, half-naked body brazenly. Blaine’s mouth parted. Kurt stared down at him and wondered what Blaine’s mouth would feel like on his skin. What would Blaine taste of? What would it be like, to be together in the open sunlight, outside, the grass on their backs and open air on their skin? Kurt thought he could see his thoughts reflected in Blaine, in his face, in the way his skin flushed and his eyes darkened.�

Kurt shook himself and looked away. The tension didn’t disappear. Without looking at Blaine, he climbed down from the fountain and gathered his clothes, pulling them over his wet underclothes with haste. They stuck in odd, uncomfortable places, but Kurt was satisfied when they were mostly on his body. Vase secured in the crook of his arm, he stalked up the path towards Blaine, still avoiding his eyes. He looked instead at Blaine’s hand, which was grasping the vase handle like it was his lifeline. Without slowing his stride, Kurt reached out and tore the handle from Blaine’s hand. For the briefest moment, their fingers brushed.�

Then Kurt moved past Blaine, towards the house, trying to calm the stuttering beat of his heart.�

He didn’t look back to see Blaine let out a long, slow breath, then approach the fountain. Blaine sat at the edge of it and lowered his hand until it barely brushed the water’s surface. For a long moment, he sat there, staring down at the calm, still surface. Then he swore under his breath and got up, walking back to the house as well.�

-

“Santana!” Rachel cried out as she spotted Santana’s dark curls. Santana turned around, a sneer on her face. Rachel ignored it. “Do you know where Kurt is? We need to practice for our duet tonight!”

Santana quirked an eyebrow. “What’re you singing, shortie?” she asked with an edge of venom.�

Rachel bit her lip. “Happy Days Are Here Again,” she murmured. “We turned it into a duet last year when he was home for Christmas . . . .”

Santana’s smile as all teeth. “How quaint,” she snapped. Rachel took a step away from her. Santana’s face cleared, then her expression turned thoughtful. “You know, Rachel, maybe we should sing together.”

Rachel’s jaw dropped. “What?” she squeaked.

Santana looked amused. “I wouldn’t mind singing for your big brother,” she said. “It’d be a way to make a good impression with your family, wouldn’t it?”

“Well, yes, I suppose,” Rachel said, still bewildered. “But Kurt and I are going to sing!”

Santana shrugged. “What’s another duet? Maybe you and Kurt could sing before dinner and you and I can sing after?”

Rachel considered it. She didn’t really like Santana that much, but another duet meant another chance to show off her own considerable talent. And Rachel never said no to showing off her talent.

“Alright,” she said, still suspicious. “I suppose. But what will we sing?”

She knew plenty of duets for men and women - they were all mostly romantic, of course, but that didn’t matter since she was just singing them with Kurt. Rachel was less immediately well-versed on two women singing duets together, though she supposed she could probably come up with a few songs before dinner.�

Santana’s smile was slow and . . . Rachel searched for the word. She eyed the curve of Santana’s lips, much redder than her own, then realized: sensual. Santana, Rachel thought, almost nervously, was very sensual.�

“You leave that to me, doll,” Santana purred. “I have just the thing.”

-

Blaine buried his face in his hands. Inside of his room, safe and alone, he allowed the tension to drain from his shoulders. He kept seeing Kurt in his mind’s eye, Kurt half-naked and wet, that damned defiant gleam in his bright eyes, as if Blaine was the impertinent one when Kurt had just dove into a fountain in his underclothes--in his underclothes--�

Blaine dug the palms of his hands into his eyes, trying to force the image away. He couldn’t think like that. Not about Kurt. Kurt, who had been his childhood best friend, Kurt who was the son of the Lord of the manor, Kurt who was so handsome and sharp-tongued and intelligent and musical, God--

You can’t think like that, Blaine told himself sternly, lifting his head to stare blankly out of his window, where the sky was starting to grow darker. You know you can’t.

“I wish I could,” he admitted aloud, safe in his solitude. “I wish I could just tell him . . . .”

What? a voice inside of his head mocked. That you want him so badly your hands shake?

Blaine shook his head. “No,” he said, out loud again, half-whispering. “It’s not just--”

Oh you can wax poetic about his voice and his intelligence all you want, Blaine Anderson, but you know as well as I do that you would give anything to fuck him. To have him fuck you.

Blaine shuddered, a coil of something sweet and hot tightening in his stomach, the low hum or arousal that he’d become accustomed to from the constant presence of Kurt. Kurt, who made his blood boil and his hands sweat and everything in him hum with pure want--

“You can’t have him, Blaine,” he whispered, mostly to himself. “You know you can’t.”

Blaine sighed heavily. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of his typewriter, half-finished poem still sitting on the scroll. Blaine was horrible at poetry, but something about the process of writing it soothed him. An idea occurred to him and Blaine hastily ripped away the last sheet of paper, quickly replacing it with a blank sheet. He sat down in front of the typewriter, considering the keys carefully. Hesitantly, he began to type out:

Dear Kurt,

I am terribly sorry for our confrontation at the fountain. I don’t know what came over me. It must be the heat, or just your prese--

Blaine ripped the paper out of the scroll, crumpled it up and threw it in his trash bin. Not what he wanted to say, not at all. Putting another piece of paper in, he frowned heavily. What did he want to say to Kurt? He cracked his fingers, then started typing, his words coming unplanned and unformed.

Kurt,

I’m sorry. Do you regret seeing what you did? Is that why you won’t look at me anymore, or talk to me? Is it because you were disgusted or because you want it too? I want to ask, but you keep me at arms length--

Blaine ripped that sheet away and crumpled it as well, heart beating too fast. Those were questions that he wanted to ask Kurt, but he didn’t--didn’t know how. The words, even on paper, scared him to death. The thought of Kurt reading them made his ears burn with embarrassment.�

Dear Kurt,

Can’t we go back to what we were? I miss you. I don’t have anyone to talk to except for my mother and she doesn’t understa--

Kurt,

Sometimes, at night, I dream of you. You’re so beautiful, Kurt, and God, seeing you today, wet and half-naked--

Dear Mister Hummel,

I formally apologize for any misconduct or inappropriate behavior I may have directed towards your person this afternoon at your family’s fountain--

Blaine groaned heavily, tossing his last paper over his head. He could hear it fall to the floor, but he didn’t bother getting up to get it. Maybe he should just give up. It wasn’t like Kurt was expecting any type of apology from him - and it wasn’t like Blaine really knew what he was apologizing for, not really. Nothing had happened between them at the fountain, or, at least, nothing tangible had. Blaine closed his eyes, remembering.

Kurt was so pale. Blaine had been surprised by that. Kurt spent a lot of time outdoors, after all, walking with his father or spending time with Jesse or Rachel. But his skin was still much lighter than Blaine’s, almost translucent in the sunshine. It made his dark hair, striking eyes and red lips stand out all the more. And seeing all that skin bared all at once, seeing it wet, water dripping off of Kurt’s chin, following the curve of his collar-bone, turning his white underclothes almost see-through, outlining his--

Blaine opened his eyes with a gasp. His body was throbbing. Without thinking, he turned to the typewriter.

Kurt,

Sometimes, in my dreams, I suck your cock.�

Blaine stared at the line for a long moment, then laughed, loud and sharp and desperate. What am I doing? he thought, the laughter diffusing the tension that had been building up with every failed letter to Kurt.

He took the message off and, as he was about to crumple it like the others, hesitated. Carefully, almost reverently, he folded it neatly and set it down next to his typewriter. Then he turned back to the machine and started typing.

Dear Kurt,

I am terribly sorry for our situation today. Can you please forgive me?

Sincerely,
Blaine

Blaine leaned back in his chair and eyed the note carefully. It was casual, it mentioned nothing specific and it was apologetic. It would do, though it didn’t say the dozens of things Blaine wanted to tell Kurt. He took the note and folded it, setting it by the typewriter.

“Blaine?” his mother said, popping her head into the room. Blaine was extremely relieved his last note was carefully disposed of. His mother eyed the messy room and crumpled paper balls critically. “What are you doing in here?”

Blaine just smiled at her. She rolled his eyes at him and beckoned him.�

“Come on,” she said impatiently. “You’re having dinner with the Hummels tonight and you need to look somewhat presentable. No son of mine will be going up to that family’s table looking like a ragamuffin.”

Blaine laughed. “I still have my suit from last year,” he said, standing. “I’m sure it will still fit.”

His mother smiled at him with approval. “Now we just need to do something about your hair,” she said, eyeing his curls critically.

Blaine cringed and resigned himself to an afternoon of preparation. As his mother led him out, he made a mental note to grab his letter to Kurt before he left.

-

Kurt stared out the window, hitting random notes on the piano, and willed Sam to arrive.

The sun was starting to dip, edging closer and closer to the horizon, and Sam had yet to come cantering up their road. Kurt was beginning to think that his father had gotten the date wrong or that something had happened to Sam and his friend. Kurt frowned at the thought of Sam’s friend and wondered, not for the first time, why Sam had never mentioned this David Karofsky.

Sam had left to carry on their father’s business assets in England over a year ago and Kurt had only heard from him in letters and phone calls since. Kurt, though he never told anyone, missed Sam something fierce. Sam was only older than him by a year and they’d been inseparable as kids. They’d even gone to the same college together--not that they’d had a choice, with Yale being his father’s alma mater. Burt Hummel loved Yale so much that he’d even paid the way for his poor servant to go there to study pre-law. Kurt remembered a few weeks ago when he’d overheard his father and Blaine talking about attending law school to become a real lawyer. Kurt shook his head. No thoughts of Blaine, he reminded himself sternly.�

He looked down at the piano and sighed. He used to practice on it every day, but it had been a long time since he’d even touched it. Hesitantly, he started a tune.�

Outside, there was the faint sound of horses on the road. Kurt’s hands jerked on the piano, cacophony of noise loud in the empty room as he turned to the window, waiting. A huge smile overtook his face as two riders came into view, one of them with very blond hair. Immediately, he started running through the house to the front door, so he could meet Sam on the lawn.

Kurt stumbled out of the house around the exact moment Sam pulled his horse to a stop. Without pausing, Sam dropped down from his horse and opened his arms, ready for Kurt to hug him to death. Kurt gripped Sam’s waist tightly and buried his head in Sam’s shoulder. He smelled like horses and sweat and Sam and Kurt felt like he was so happy he could burst.�

He pulled away a little to take in Sam’s face, which had barely changed. The last of his baby fat had melted away, but everything else was the same - full lips, bright, mischevious eyes and a head of very blond hair.�

“I’m so glad you’re back,” Kurt said, kissing his brother on both cheeks as he’d learned to do in his French classes. “It’s so good to see your face again after so long.”

Sam immediately returned the gesture of affection. “The same to you, little brother,” he murmured against Kurt’s cheek. “Although, I must say, I think out of the two of us, you’ve changed the most.”

Kurt flushed. He knew that the final stages of puberty had finally hit in the year Sam had been gone, but he hadn’t thought he’d changed that much.�

“Are you going to introduce me to your brother, Hummel, or am I going to sit watching you two hug all night?”�

Kurt jumped, startled and turned to see a large man eyeing him with amusement. He was big and bulky, with hair cropped short in a military way. He was fairly good-looking, but something about his face - the look in his eyes, perhaps, or the wry curl of his mouth - made Kurt a little uneasy. It was, he acknowledged, the same sort of feeling he got around Santana.�

“This must be the infamous David Karofsky,” Kurt murmured, pulling away from Sam to offer Karofsky his hand. “It’s a pleasure to have a face to put with the name, at last.”

Karofsky smiled at him. It was a smile that made a chill creep up Kurt’s spine - all oil and slick, greasy, slyness. “The pleasure’s all mine, Kurt,” Karofsky said, taking Kurt’s hand firmly. His hands were huge and strong - much stronger than Kurt’s. “Sam here can never seem to shut up about you.”

Kurt sent a pleased smile at a very red Sam. “I hope he only says good things,” he laughed, turning back to Karofsky. “Otherwise I’ll have to think of some way to punish him.”

“Only the very best,” Karofsky assured him, releasing Kurt’s hand. “Now, Sam, if you could show me your stables? We should cool the horses down.”

“Ah, of course,” Sam said. “Kurt could you let father and Carole know that I’ve arrived? I’m sure they were waiting anxiously for me.”

“Yes, brother,” Kurt said, rolling his eyes. “Hurry in, though. Rachel is dying to see you, and I don’t mean that figuratively.” Sam chuckled.

“I’ll be quick, I promise,” he said, then leaned in to peck Kurt’s cheek. “It is so good to be home,” he said, pulling away, smiling widely. Then he turned to Karofsky. “Come on, Dave, the stables are this way. We’ll be up soon, Kurt!”

Kurt watched as they turned and headed away. He waited until they were out of sight before he headed into the house to let his family know that the prodigal son had returned, smiling all the while.