He's 4 years old. He's the ring bearer in his aunt's wedding.

"My shoes hurt." He pouts, twisting the toe of one of his newly purchased dress shoes into the ground.

"You'll get used to them." His father buttons the tiny cuff around his wrist, "want to learn something new, Blaine?"

He knows he doesn't have to ask—Blaine always wants to learn something new—but the blatant inquiry has the desired effect. He forgets about his shoes and bobs his head up and down, "what?"

John Anderson kneels beside his son and turns him to face the full-length mirror. "I'm going to show you how to knot a tie."

Blaine twists around to stare at him cynically. Ties are not fun. They can't be thrown, they don't glow in the dark; they aren't even interesting to look at.

John laughs at the dubious expression on such a small face, "You'll be a man just like your daddy. You'll get to wear one today just like I do for work."

A lot rides on being just like daddy. Blaine turns back to face the mirror, bouncing in his previously despised dress shoes, "Show me!"

So he does. He voices each step—the loops, the turns, the pull. He knows Blaine has already forgotten the entire process by the time he has finished, but that's okay. "What do you think, kiddo?"

Blaine takes a few steps closer to the mirror, studying his reflection. He turns and faces his father, already tugging at his collar, "It makes me breathe funny."

"You'll get used to it; and look," John points to their reflections in the mirror, "Just like mine, see?"

Blaine turns to study his father's tie full on, lifting his own to scrutinize. He lets it go and smiles. "Just like yours."

When he walks his son out of the changing rooms and into the entry of the church, his previously confident little boy is suddenly nervous amidst his tuxedo'd and dressed up family members.

The bride-to-be bends over to smile at him. Her perfume makes him sneeze, "Do you remember what to do, Blaine?"

Blaine nods his head shyly. He holds up the pillow with the sewed on plastic rings to show her.

"Yes, you get to carry that, and you have to hold Caroline's hand. Carrie is Peter's niece, sort of like how I'm your aunt. She's the flower girl." She tugs a little girl in a white dress over toward him.

They look at one another with distaste. He tugs at his father's sleeve, "I don't want to hold her hand."

"Blaine, just do it for Aunt Katie, won't you?" John smiles, "Just while you two walk down the aisle."

"But she's a girl." Blaine moans, his mouth turning down into a pout.

"That's right, but remember you're big now, just like daddy, right?"

Blaine nods his head, "I'm wearing a tie."

"Yes you are, and when you're big, sometimes you have responsibilities; do you remember what a responsibility is?"

Blaine's head bobs up and down again, "Something you gotta do."

"That's right, and right now, it is your responsibility to help Carrie walk down the aisle. She's only three; she needs someone to help her." John holds his breath while Blaine looks over the little girl a second time.

"…'kay." Blaine reaches out to the little girl and grips her hand firmly.

John smiles; adjusts the lapels on his son's jacket, "I'm proud of you, Blaine."

"I know." Blaine beams up at him, but then, the conversation decidedly over, he leaves his father's side, towing the flower girl behind him to stand quietly amidst the chatter and buzz of the adults.

"I think I spy a future daughter-in-law, John." His youngest sister squeezes his arm, her smile dazzling and her cheeks flushed.

"Lets focus on your wedding for today." He kisses her on the cheek and laughs off the comment. But, once seated beside his wife in the chapel, he can't help but feel an ache of pride watching his son, hand-in-hand with the little girl in white, solemnly make his way down the aisle.

He's eight years old. It's the day of his first communion.

He stands in the doorway of his father's closet, a tie hanging undone around his neck, "Dad, can you help me?"

"Sure thing, buddy." John smoothes the collar of his own shirt before kneeling in front of Blaine. "Pay attention, all right?"

Blaine nods quickly, his eyes glued to the mirror on the closet wall.

"Cross the big part over the little, up through the big loop, back down, under the little, back through the loop and around again, cross right to left, big side back through the loop, down through the little loop and…" John cinches the tie at his son's neck. "Pull tight. There; done."

Blaine studies the knot for a moment; he straightens it a little—or maybe he's trying to loosen it; John's not really sure, "Thanks."

"Are you excited for today?" John gets off his knee to pull down his suit jacket.

"Grandma Patty is really excited." Blaine kicks one heel of his shoe into the carpet lightly.

"Yes she is; this is a very big day for you with the church, so she's very proud of you today."

"Yeah, I know, she told me that, too." Blaine shifts from foot to foot; antsy.

"Why don't you go downstairs and keep your grandparents company until it's time to go?" John suggests, glancing into the bathroom to confirm that his wife is still fixing her make up.

"Grandma Mary doesn't like me and Grandpa Henry can't hear." Blaine moans.

"Blaine," John says flatly, "They are your grandparents, I know it is not the first thing you want to do, but you have a responsibility to respect them. Do you understand?"

Blaine lets out a long breath; he's allowed his mother to style his hair already that day for the occasion, but he pulls the unruly curls loose once again when he scratches at his head, "Okay, I'll go sit with them."

John watches him turn to leave, "Blaine?"

He turns and waits for further instruction.

"I'm proud of you, sport."

Blaine smiles, "I know."

He's thirteen years old. It's his first year acting as an escort to a benefit.

"Blaine, why aren't you dressed?" John stares in shock at the suit his wife had ironed for their son that is still on its hanger. Blaine is sitting on the edge of his bed.

"I'm not going." Blaine says quietly. He doesn't look at his father.

"Of course you are." John frowns; Blaine is never a difficult child. The sudden rebellion feels foreign.

"No. I'm not." Blaine still doesn't look at him. He folds his arms around his middle.

"Blaine, I don't know what's gotten into you, but, in case you've forgotten, you have an obligation to fulfill," John remains in the doorway, still unsure of how to deal with a rebelling preteen, "What will Caroline do if her escort doesn't show up? Who will she dance with?"

Blaine remains where he is for a long moment, but then slowly gets to his feet, moving toward the suit. "Can I have a little privacy, please?"

John nods with a smile, all too eager to accommodate his son if the momentary breach in conduct can be over.

He closes the door behind him, but when twenty minutes pass and Blaine does not appear at the base of the stairs, John knows something isn't right. He knocks once before letting himself in. Blaine is dressed, but he remains immobile in front of his mirror.

"Ready to go?" John prompts.

"Mom didn't get me a tie." Blaine doesn't look at him.

"You can wear one of mine, come on." John leads the way to his closet and selects a plain, black tie and hands it over.

He watches in silence as Blaine fumbles with it. He messes up the knot twice before John takes over. He doesn't meet his eyes, "Dad… I… there's something I have to tell you."

"Hmm?" John is looping the tie a second time.

Blaine falls silent, but John can feel his heart beating through his shirt.

He stops his work to look up at his son's face with genuine concern, "What's wrong, Blaine? Is that Kevin kid giving you trouble at school?"

Blaine shakes his head, but then pauses, "Well, I mean, yeah, but… that's not what I have to, um, that's not why I—"

"Blaine," John's voice is gentle, "When I was your age I did some pretty stupid things that I was scared to tell my father, but it's always best to just man up and—"

"I'm gay." He blurts. The words seem to startle him as much as they do his father. His eyes swim with unshed tears, but he holds them in. His breath comes out in shaky bursts as he watches his father for a reaction.

John remains frozen. His hands still on the tie around his son's neck. They stay that way for five seconds… five minutes…

"Dad," Blaine finally whispers, "I'm—"

John cinches the tie, "Get downstairs; you're going to be late for entrance if we don't leave now."

He brushes past Blaine, doesn't bother turning to see if he follows. He waits in the car.

Blaine climbs in the backseat a few minutes later. He says nothing.

When they reach the Country Club, John opens his wife's door and escorts her in. He ignores her inquiries in his ear regarding whether or not he told Blaine where he was supposed to meet Caroline.

When they see him next, he has a sweet little blonde looped on his arm. Her cheeks are as pink as her dress every time he smiles at her.

"The perfect gentleman; just like his father." His wife squeezes his arm and laughs into his ear as they watch him escort her to the dance floor with all the other young pairs.

All of the girls wear matching dresses; all the boys matching suits. Blaine blends in with the rest so that his mother is constantly craning her neck to try and spot him, wondering aloud over his whereabouts.

John doesn't have to move, doesn't have to stand on tiptoe to try and discern his child from the pack like the other parents do; Blaine stands out to him now as though he's been marked with a red flag. He only stops seeing him when he turns his back on the dance floor and moves toward the bar.

He is fifteen years old. It's his first day at the new school. The private school with the zero-tolerance policy.

"I didn't lay down sixteen grand for you to be late on your first day." John sits at the kitchen table, watching his son button the blue blazer.

"I'm going." Blaine replies quietly.

"You look wonderful, dear," his mother smiles weakly for him, then looks to her husband, "Doesn't he look distinguished, John?"

John stares down into his newspaper, "Did you fill out the transcript forms?"

"Yes, sir." Blaine turns his back to them to fill a cup with orange juice.

The phone rings, breaking the silent tension. His mother almost knocks her chair over running for it, "I'll get it!"

Blaine watches her snatch the phone from its cradle.

"Hi, Mom!" She sounds too happy, "Yes, yes; it's his first day today… oh yes, it's excellent; it will definitely make him more competitive for school; he could be an Eli just like Dad someday!"

She disappears out of the kitchen, still chattering, but now she's left them alone.

The silence blankets them once again.

"Dad," Blaine finally speaks, but he remains on the other side of the kitchen.

John checks his watch, "We need to leave."

Blaine doesn't argue; he puts his glass in the dishwasher and follows quietly toward the garage, only pausing long enough for his mother to kiss him goodbye.

Once in the car, Blaine turns on the radio.

John considers turning it right back off, but thinks better of it. Something to fill the silence is better than the unspoken words that would otherwise scream inside his head.

As they pull up, other boys in identical uniforms mill around the car, drift toward the front entrance. Blaine watches them out the window for a moment before turning his attention back to his father, "Dad?"

John looks at him expectantly. Why hasn't he gotten out of the car already? Any other time he had driven Blaine somewhere, his son was out of the car so fast he barely had time to put the vehicle in park.

"Thank you for this… for Dalton," Blaine swallows hard, "I… I know this isn't easy for you, but I really do—"

John stares at him for a moment longer before hitting the unlock button, "Straighten your tie."

There is silence from the passenger's seat, but then the door is slamming shut and he's gone.

He is sixteen years old. He's a different person now.

He is confident and moves around the house with the energy of a well-oiled machine. He's through the kitchen and gone out the door before John can really register his presence in the mornings, and he busies himself with extracurriculars and friends on the weekends. He and John see each other only in passing, and that suits both of them just fine.

Today though, Blaine is not filling his coffee mug and running out the door. He's standing idly near the sink, toying with the lid of his cup.

John reads with his paper in front of his face. A barrier to the awkwardness.

When his wife enters the kitchen, the tension seems to physically lessen. John lowers his paper a little; Blaine relaxes on his side of the kitchen.

"I feel like I never see you in the mornings anymore, Blaine, what's the occasion?" She smiles, planting a kiss on his temple as she moves for the coffee pot and then the chair next to her husband.

"Um, nothing really," Blaine seems to work up his courage and he approaches the table. John hears him slide something across the wood surface.

"What's this, honey?" John can spy the edge of a red piece of paper in his wife's hand.

"It's a flyer for my… for my concert tonight." Blaine clears his throat, bashful; uncomfortable, "I'm lead soloist."

"Oh, honey, that's wonderful; of course we'll be there, won't we, John?" She kicks him under the table.

"I'm working late." John replies, not looking up.

"Right, well, just thought I'd let you know." With that, he's gone out the door.

Despite the obvious disappointment he'd caused, despite the icy chill his wife gave off for the rest of the day, John doesn't tell them. He doesn't tell them that he walked in just as a brigade of identically dressed boys filled the risers onstage. He doesn't tell them that he stood in the back of the darkened auditorium and watched. He doesn't tell them that he had picked out Blaine even before he stepped to the front of the group. He doesn't tell them and he tears himself away just early enough to beat them home.

"You should have heard him; he was amazing!" His wife is speaking the moment she is through the door, before she's even rounded the corner. John is on the couch, holding a glass of scotch.

Blaine follows after her, smiling bashfully, but not looking at his father.

"You would have been so proud, John, he was flawless!" His mother turns to beam at him once more.

"Was your tie crooked like that for the whole performance?" John glances away from the evening news. He doesn't know why he says it. He knows for a fact it wasn't. His wife was right; his son had been perfect.

Blaine glances down at his tie and then looks back at his mother, he kisses her quietly on the cheek, "I have a lot of homework to do."

He's gone once again, a shadow of dejection left in his wake.

"Would it kill you to be kind to him for just one moment?" His wife's voice wavers and then she's gone too.

He puts his drink down, but does not call after her. There is nothing he can say to explain it. He sits alone.

He's seventeen years old. John doesn't know where he's going.

They are on their own orbits as always, but as Blaine buzzes down the stairs, his hair neatly styled and a tux adorning his slim body, John allows their separate trajectories to momentarily come closer; pause in their perpetual circling to question him. "Where are you going?"

Blaine is tying the thin cut tie in front of a mirror in the hallway. He finishes, inspects it closely, and then apparently not satisfied, pulls it loose and tries again. He doesn't look at John. "Prom."

Prom? At an all boys school?

Blaine disappears into the kitchen and then reappears, a plastic box in one hand. He's looking at himself in the mirror again; staring at the knot at his neck. He looks anxious.

"Oh, let me look at you!" His mother breezes in from the yoga class she's just returned from, her arms already open to hold him out in front of her to admire. She sighs contentedly, "You look so handsome."

"Thanks, Mom." Blaine smiles half-heartedly, he glances begrudgingly at his tie. "I can't get the knot right."

His mother studies it for a moment with a frown, "I don't know how to do anything but Windsor knots either… John?"

He looks over at her disdainfully. She wouldn't.

"Could you help him, please?" Her eyes say more. Support your son for five seconds or you will be sleeping on the couch until the day you die.

John lets out an irritated sigh, but crosses the room nonetheless. He silently pulls out the knot in his son's tie.

"I'm going to go get my camera." She announces.

"Mom," Blaine groans. John isn't sure if he is upset because he doesn't want his picture taken or if he doesn't want to be left alone with him.

Whatever Blaine's motives for his distress or his mother's for ignoring him, she disappears up the steps.

"You should use a four-in-hand knot." John fills the silence as he begins looping the tie back around.

Blaine is silent.

"You think another school dance is a good idea?" John surprises them both when he speaks again.

Blaine doesn't answer him. He steps back and pulls the knot tight himself, "Thanks."

John nods and returns to his seat. His wife takes her pictures until Blaine is insisting he's going to be late.

"He hates it when I'm late. He'll kill me." He's saying over his shoulder to her as he makes for the laundry room.

He. John takes a long drink from his glass as the garage door slams shut.

Hours later, his wife wonders aloud if John is coming to bed. He tells her no, he's going to stay up for awhile. He tells himself he wants to watch Jay Leno. When that ends, he convinces himself he wants to see Jimmy Fallon's monologue. And so the false assurances pile up until John knows he cannot convince himself that he wants to watch the St. Jude's infomercial. He turns off the television and goes up to bed, but he listens. He listens and listens and listens, but the house remains silent. No opening garage door, no creaking seventh step. When John finally sleeps—he doesn't know when this happens; the last time he checks the clock it reads 3:51—he knows Blaine has not come home.

Late the following morning, John nurses a third cup of coffee at his desk. The garage door slams and soon Blaine is passing the open door on his way toward the stairs. He is still dressed in last night's tux; his jacket draped over one arm and his tie gone.

"You didn't come home last night." John says, unsure of how else to stop Blaine in his perpetual motion.

Blaine pauses and looks in at him; he passes a hand through his messy hair, "After party at a friend's place. I slept there. Mom knew."

John wonders only for a moment why she wouldn't mention it to him, but then he remembers she is convinced he hates his son. "There's coffee in the kitchen still."

John is surprised by his own civility. If Blaine is equally caught off guard, he recovers quickly enough that John doesn't catch it. He holds up a hand to show a Styrofoam cup, "I got coffee on my way home."

"Did you have a nice time?"

Another shock, this time John sees it on Blaine's face. The way his eyes widen for a moment, the uncertainty in the way he adjusts the jacket on his arm. But then he smiles just a little, more to himself than his father, "Yeah, we had a great time."

John clears his throat, "Where' s your tie?"

"I let Kurt keep it." Blaine shrugs and then he's gone out the door and up the stairs.

Kurt must be the he. The he that doesn't like when Blaine is late. John wonders momentarily where this boy had come from. Wonders if his wife knows anything about him. He shuts those thoughts down. He does not want to know those things. He finds his coffee has grown cold while he sits not thinking about Blaine's friend.

He is eighteen years old. It is his last day of school and in the fall he will pack up for NYU.

John comes home for a late lunch; he usually stays at work until evening, but today he is tired of the fluorescents in his office and needs a break.

He is confused to find Blaine's blazer on the floor in the laundry room, even more puzzled by the belt strewn over the top of a lamp in the hall. Blaine, however chaotic in his movements, is never messy. And then even more troubling: a vest (John thinks that's what it is, anyway) draped over the arm of the couch. He bends over to scrutinize it further. It's black with too many zippers; while John recognizes the name on the tag sewn in the neck, he knows he does not recognize this as something Blaine would be wearing even on days he isn't required to don a uniform. He abandons the thing and moves on to the kitchen.

He doesn't fully process what he's seeing at first. Blaine's uniform shirt is unbuttoned at the top, his sleeves rolled; his hair tousled. He has his body pressed close to someone John does not recognize. The strange boy has his back pinned to the edge of the counter; one hand grips Blaine's tie, the other is at his mouth, feeding him a strawberry. They're both laughing.

John can't move; can't look away when the boy uses his grip on Blaine's tie to pull him in for a kiss; Blaine still smiling against his mouth. But then his eyes are open and father and son have seen each other.

John is sure Blaine will spring away from this boy, blush furiously, look ashamed; mutter some half-baked explanation for strawberries and scattered pieces of clothing.

Blaine does no such thing. He pulls away slowly from the kiss, his eyes still on John. "You're home early."

It is the other boy who jumps out from between Blaine and the counter with such lightning agility John almost thinks he imagined it. His cheeks are red and he's looking between Blaine and John with wide eyes.

"So are you." John says flatly.

"Last day is always early release." Blaine says coolly, he glances at the other boy with a reassuring smile.

John nods slowly. He loosens the tie around his neck; suddenly a little too hot.

Blaine watches him for a moment more and then nods his head to the other boy still standing a solid two or three feet away from him, "This is Kurt."

Kurt from prom last year? John wants to ask, but he doesn't. He nods his head pertly in salutation. This boy has a bedazzled skull on his t-shirt. This boy wears vests with too many zippers.

"Pleased to finally meet you, Mr. Anderson; I've heard a lot about you." Kurt smiles faintly, but he still looks mortified.

Heard what? What would Blaine have to say about him to this boy who wears designer vests and feeds him strawberries? John looks back at Blaine who finally seems uncomfortable.

John clears his throat; "I came home to get something for lunch."

"We'll get out of your way then," Blaine disappears as he bends over to retrieve something from the floor. He hands what looks like a gauzy scarf to Kurt. They exchange a smile that John cannot decipher and then they are gone from sight.

"Strawberries are gone." Blaine calls down the steps and John is fairly certain he hears Kurt shriek something but then they are both laughing again until Blaine's bedroom door has clicked shut, sealing them away from sight and earshot.

John does not return to work. He works from his home office; the door ajar so he can see the front entry. Kurt and Blaine don't come back down.

His wife arrives through the garage several hours later, bags of groceries in her arms. When Kurt and Blaine finally emerge from upstairs, she does not look surprised to see the other boy. She refuses their help with unloading the paper bags on the counter. Blaine disappears into the family room, leaving the Andersons alone with his friend. His mother clearly doesn't mind, she chatters amicably with Kurt about the haircut John hadn't noticed she'd gotten that day.

Blaine returns quickly, Kurt's vest in one hand and a red zip-up in his other. Kurt takes the vest gratefully, but eyes the sweatshirt with disdain before meeting Blaine's eyes and quirking an eyebrow, "Clearly we're taking a detour to my house."

Blaine laughs and pushes Kurt toward the door with a hand in the small of his back. "Lets go then."

"Where are you off to?" His mother looks up from the boxes she's putting in the cupboard.

"Lima for a bonfire; be back later." Blaine calls over his shoulder.

John moves to the window by the sink to stare out into the driveway. Blaine is still pushing Kurt, but then Kurt is twisting around and catching Blaine by handfuls of his shirt. John is going to walk away from the glass, but then he sees his wife standing beside him, smiling as she looks out. The moment passes and Blaine's car disappears down the street.

"What the hell was that?" John snaps; unsure of what he's feeling.

His wife does not scold him; she's still staring out the window. "Love."

He is twenty-four years old. It is his wedding day.

John stares at his reflection in the mirror pointedly. Determined.

He has not seen Blaine in months. His son had packed up for New York City at the end of his final summer at home—Kurt sitting shotgun and a noisy little brunette girl in the backseat that bickered with Kurt before they had even pulled out of the driveway. Blaine kissed his mother and shook his father's hand.

He never looked back. Yes, he returned for the staple holidays, Kurt always in tow, but John recognized the look on his face. Remembered the feeling. He was a free man now; the shackles of his parent's home finally broken and the freedom to create a life all his own. He did not fear his father, he simply built up a life that didn't involve him. Once they had been just two separate orbits; now they occupied separate solar systems and that suited them just fine. It made pleasantries over Christmas dinner automatic; simple.

John's wife spoke to their son frequently; phone calls that John heard half of during their actual occurrence, the other side only coming once he and his wife had settled into bed for the night. It was just such occurrence that had provided him with the news that Blaine had proposed to one Kurt Hummel.

John did not discuss the nuptials. Despite his wife's insistence that he at least call his son and congratulate him, John remained mute on the subject until they were suddenly in the city, three days early for the wedding.

In some ways, John did not recognize his son—the suave charisma, the easy way he hailed cabs, requested checks at restaurants, took calls from clients—the man he had become was an entirely different person. But other things had not changed—Blaine still moved with all the speed and noise of a bullet train; eating breakfast while reading through a new case file, jumping furniture if it was in his way as he moved about the apartment; singing along with Rachel and Kurt while they primped themselves for the day. John only caught a glimpse of the first morning in the little two-bedroom apartment when Blaine had brought them over so he could pick some things up for work before dropping them off at their hotel.

"All three of you live here?" John had asked upon walking into the cramped space. He had eyed the coffee table cynically; it was badly beaten and one leg looked suspiciously like a fire poker.

"Four," Kurt corrected coolly, "Finn moved in last spring."

"Four of you. In here." John's attention moved to the array of buckets and pans near the bathroom door. Most were half-filled with water.

Blaine had looked around the apartment once as well, he grinned at Kurt, "Yes, sir."

"How we gonna pay, how we gonna pay?" Rachel belted out a song from the bathroom.

Blaine laughed, kissed Kurt on the cheek, and ushered them out.

And now the day is here. And John's hands are shaking; his tie is loose around his neck.

A knock at the door.

John stares at his son for a long moment—his hair is not nearly as carefully gelled as it was in his younger years, and he has apparently taken to not shaving every day—a light shadow covers his jaw; there's a calla lily pinned to the lapel of his tux, a matching one in his hand. He looks like a man. He holds up the boutonniere, "This one's yours."

John nods and watches Blaine set the flower down on the window ledge. He turns his attention back the mirror, but much to his chagrin, his hands are still shaking.

Blaine takes a step forward and wordlessly takes up the fabric in his own hands.

John eyes the perfect knot of Blaine's tie; he clears his throat, "Your grandparents and your Aunt Kara didn't come."

"I didn't expect them to." Blaine shrugs, still focused on his work.

"Did you invite them?" John asks.

"Of course." Blaine frowns; pulls the knot loose and tries again.

John glances down at Blaine's steady hands; his agile fingers manipulating the fabric beneath them, "No pre-wedding jitters?"

"No," Blaine is looping the tie; sliding the knot up; he smiles, "I've never been more sure of anything in my life."

John stares at his son for a long moment; their eyes meet. John looks away.

Blaine claps him on the shoulder once; his hand lingers, "Thanks for coming, Dad."

John doesn't know what to say. He glances at Blaine; reaches out to straighten the tie, but then lets his hand fall; it's already perfect, "You look good, kid."

Blaine lets out a chuckle, squeezes his arm once, and then he's gone once again.

The ceremony is lovely. John recognizes a few faces (he thinks) as old Dalton classmates, but then again, those faces were hard to make out from the back of darkened auditoriums so he could be wrong. Rachel is there of course, next to an oversized young man who must be Finn. Everybody smiles, but nobody smiles like Blaine.

The reception is as lovely as the ceremony—if not a little livelier. They all sing, they all dance. John watches.

Kurt takes a seat beside him when a voluptuous looking Latina woman snags Blaine around the waist for a dance. He and Kurt do not usually talk—not without Blaine as mediator—but Kurt seems to have forgotten; he smiles at John; talks at him about Broadway and Rachel's latest role and other New York things John does not know about. When he talks about Blaine, though, he listens carefully—Blaine who everybody at the firm loves, Blaine who is requested constantly by the senior partners to aid them in cases, Blaine who still goes to restaurants at the end of long days at the office to play the piano and sing for tips. Kurt pauses in his endless praises; he follows John's eyes to his handsome partner on the dance floor. He drums his fingers on the linen tablecloth once, smiling down at the platinum band on his ring finger, and then he's looking at John again, "It means a lot to him that you came."

John stares back at Kurt in silence. Did Blaine think he wouldn't? Did he lick the back of a stamp, scribble out the address to the home he grew up in, and send the invitation with the same belief he held when he sent identical envelopes to his grandparents' homes? A courtesy invite that he had believed nothing would come of?

Kurt politely excuses himself when he catches sight of a hulking man looking uncomfortable near the entrance.

John gets up from his chair; takes a walk; gets a drink from the bar and returns to his seat.

Blaine drops down beside him, his tie loose, and a glass of champagne in one hand. He smiles. He hasn't stopped smiling, "Are you having an all right time? Do you need anything?"

Always so eager to please. John shakes his head slowly, holds up his still half-filled glass of scotch.

They lapse into silence. Blaine is watching Kurt still speaking with the larger gentleman, he shakes his head and chuckles to himself; his eyes drift over the crowd. He glances at his father who hasn't taken his eyes off of him. He blushes a little, "What?"

John reaches inside the breast pocket of his jacket. He slides the envelope across the table wordlessly.

Blaine picks it up, turns it over in his hands, "What's this?"

"Wedding gift." John states flatly.

"Mom said she got us a new set of pans." Blaine is still inspecting the envelope.

"This is from me." John mumbles.

Blaine glances over at him again and then uses a finger to peel open the seal; shakes out the check inside. His eyes go wide; his smile finally disappears.

"Four of you can't live in that apartment of yours." John says gruffly.

Blaine is looking at him and John is seeing his fourteen-year old again. None of the carefully worked out manners and smiles. Blaine is near tears, "Dad."

"You and Kurt need your own place." John reasserts, taking a long drink from his glass.

"Dad, we couldn't possibly; this is so generous, but we, I mean I—" Blaine is looking between the paper in his hands and his father's face.

John stands, but then Blaine is standing too, still staring at him in disbelief. John takes a chance, he reaches out and cinches Blaine's tie back up, his hands no longer shaking, "I... Congratulations, Blaine."

"Dad." Blaine says again; his voice wavering.

But then John is gone. He needs air. He needs to be outside and alone. He finds a quiet place around back—he loosens his tie and sits down against the cool brick wall. He cries and he's not sure why.

He is four years old. He is the ring bearer in his aunt's wedding.

They could not have resisted his charm if they had tried. A two-year old with dark curly hair and big brown eyes that had smiled shyly out at them from behind the legs of their adoption agent. Kurt had been near tears. Their agent berated them with paperwork and questions, but they did not waver. No they did not need to see any other children; yes they were sure. This was their child.

Like his father, he is antsy. Scratching at the starched cuffs of his sleeves; never standing completely still. John cannot deny the words his wife was constantly cooing about the little boy since the first photo was sent in the mail. It's true, he could be Blaine's own flesh and blood if they didn't know any better. He watches as the little boy eyes him nervously from the doorway, shifting from foot to foot in a pair of new dress shoes, "Hello, Joey."

"Hi, Grampa John." Joey says quietly. Grandpa John scares him a little. Grandpa Burt is not scary; he gives bear hugs, and teases his Daddy Kurt and gives good presents and likes to read him good bedtime stories when they visit. Grandpa John is not like Grandpa Burt. He doesn't smile very much and he doesn't give lots of hugs. His Daddy Blaine tells him that Grandpa John is not mean, he just doesn't show how much he loves Joey in the same way that Grandpa Burt does. Joey doesn't know if he believes this.

"Where's your father, Joe?" John asks; the little boy is still in the door.

"Daddy told me to come find you." Joey mumbles; his cheeks a little flushed.

"Well, what for?" John checks his watch; he is not running late for getting into the chapel.

"He says for you to show me this." Joey finally gathers his courage, crosses the small room, and holds out the thing his daddy had given him.

John takes the little tie in his hands, runs a finger over the soft fabric, "Blaine couldn't do it for you?"

"He says you're s'posed to show me." Joey scratched at his head; Daddy Kurt had brushed it and put something sort of sticky in it for the special day. It didn't feel normal.

John studies the little boy quietly for a moment, and then, with a sharp reminder of his age from arthritic knees, he kneels on the ground beside the little boy, turns him toward the floor length mirror on the opposite wall, "All right; watch carefully."

John says each step aloud, but before he has finished, Joey's eyes are drifting around the room and he's shifting his weight from foot to foot again.

It is only when he has cinched it tight that Joey re-engages. He moves so close to the mirror to inspect himself that his breath fogs the glass. He turns to face his grandfather with a frown, "It's choking me, I think."

"It won't choke you." John reassures him.

"I don't like it." The little boy insists, tugging at it.

"Come here, let me show you something." John turns him to face the mirror once again. He brushes the unruly curls to the side just a little, "Now look there, who do you look like?"

Joey stares vacantly at his reflection.

"Who wears a tie just like that to work everyday?" John prompts.

Joe's eyes grow wide, a smile blossoming across his features, "Daddy!"

"That's right; you look just like him." John doesn't see that Blaine has come to check on them. Doesn't notice him leaned in the doorway.

"…And you!" Joe adds, turning to study his grandfather's tie.

"Yes, and me." John smiles.

"Daddy! Look at my tie!" Joey catches sight of his father; runs to him.

Blaine folds his arms across his chest and studies the child in front of him, "Well, look at you; you look like you could be a lawyer; are you going to start working with me?"

Joey giggles, delighted, "No, I'm in Aunt Rachel's wedding, remember, dad, remember?"

Blaine slaps a palm to the side of his head in mock surprise, "Oh, that's right, I almost forgot. What are you doing for the wedding?"

"I carry the rings for Aunt Rachel and Uncle Finn." Joey tells him solemnly. He's scared he'll drop them.

"That's a pretty big deal," Blaine replies, equally serious, but then he kneels, smiling, "You'll do a great, buddy. You're the best one for the job."

Joey is reassured, he smiles and shows Blaine his tie for a second time, "Grampa told me how; I can tie yours tomorrow if you want."

"I'd like that very much," Blaine holds out a hand to him, "Ready to go?"

Joey nods and takes his hand before twisting around to face John, "Are you gonna watch me carry the rings, Grampa?"

John shakes his head because once again he has been caught off guard; blown away even, but he speaks of none of what goes through his head, "I'm coming, Joe."

He walks behind them and listens to Blaine talk to the little boy beside him. They discuss the new piano in their house that Joey will soon learn to play and how, no, it is not the same as the organ in the chapel, but it's close. They discuss how Aunt Rachel has been a little crazier lately, but, no she is not mad at them, she is just a little silly about all the wedding plans. They make plans to go to the zoo soon, and maybe to the library tomorrow for new books since Joey has looked at all the ones from last week. John listens to it all and he is overwhelmed. Almost as overwhelmed as he was the day of Blaine's own wedding. His son is a father. A good father. A father his son deserves—John has no doubt, Blaine will never have any misgivings about who his son is; he will never turn his back on him. No matter what Joe does, he will always know that his father…

"Dad, are you going to go sit with Mom?" Blaine is beside him, Joey left at the front of the line with the flower girl. "I have to get in with the wedding party; I just wanted to make sure you knew where you were sitting."

"Why did you send him to me?" John asks.

Blaine smiles, unbothered by the abruptness of the inquiry, "I wanted you to teach him."

John nods his head slowly, watches Blaine turn to go stand beside Kurt ahead of the bride and groom, "Blaine?"

Blaine turns; waiting.

"I… I'm proud of you." John swallows hard.

Blaine smiles, "I know."

End