Blaine’s voice sounded calmly over the din of the crowd populating the Lima Bean, from where he was sitting across the table from Kurt. “So…you do this every year?”

Kurt glanced up from his biology homework, his eyes searching to connect with Blaine’s across the space between them, if only for a moment. “Mm-hmm,” he replied quickly, looking back to his notebook.

Blaine chuckled softly under his breath, and Kurt felt the heat of Blaine’s palm cover his hand on the table, causing him to look up again.

“It’s okay, Kurt,” Blaine said sincerely, reassuringly. “I totally understand.”

Kurt swallowed and looked deeply into Blaine’s eyes, the lighting overhead shining in his beautifully sweet irises. Blaine was smiling back at him, and it amazed Kurt how sometimes Blaine was so innocently clueless about some things, but totally understood with minimal explanation about others. Tonight Blaine’s understanding had arisen from a supremely minimal explanation from Kurt, which had come to light with one simple question from Blaine: What are you doing tomorrow?

“I’m sorry,” Kurt apologized with a sigh he could only identify as guilty, even though Blaine was clearly not upset. “It’s…tradition.” With Burt’s heart attack in his recent past, Kurt had re-dedicated himself to the notion, though tomorrow’s tradition had never been one Kurt wanted to blow off. In fact, he was sitting here blowing Blaine off because of it.

Blaine squeezed his hand and kept smiling. Kurt finally smiled back when Blaine gripped his fingers tightly and rattled their hands in an effort to lighten Kurt’s mood. Every year around this time the funk seemed to befall him, but this year it seemed heavier, darker. A blackness hung over Kurt’s head, but Blaine didn’t know the history of it. All he knew was that his boyfriend had been quieter than usual tonight, and there was an underlying reason that Kurt didn’t want to talk about. After a few details, Blaine was satisfied enough, Kurt knew, and he wouldn’t pry. Blaine’s simplicity in moments like these was one of Kurt’s favorite things about him, and the thought kept the grin on Kurt’s face. He turned his hand under Blaine’s to curl his fingers warmly around Blaine’s palm.

“You’d better go,” Blaine said then, his eyes searching out the clock on the back wall behind Kurt. “It’s almost eleven-thirty.”

“Crap,” Kurt cried, and Blaine laughed good-naturedly. Kurt began shoving his books back into his bag and gulped down the rest of his coffee. Blaine mirrored him on the other side of the table, and the two of them stood and walked to the door to leave.

Outside, they turned to each other, and Blaine pulled Kurt gently to him. They kissed goodnight, soft and slow under the moonlight, and when Blaine pulled back from him, he said lowly, “If you need me, I’m here.” His eyes, dark in the night, sparkled up at Kurt.

Kurt ran his hand affectionately down Blaine’s cheek, pressed another kiss to his lips, and then they parted ways. After a few steps down the sidewalk, Kurt glanced back to watch Blaine walk towards the corner, his bag slung over his shoulder, his hands in his pockets, humming along with the soundtrack that continuously played in Blaine’s silly, sweet brain.

Inwardly, Kurt smiled. Blaine Anderson was living proof that someone up there loved Kurt.

And as ridiculous as it seemed, especially since Kurt didn’t believe in God, he was pretty sure he knew who had sent Blaine to him. He’d known her since the day he was born.

*

The supplies were waiting for Kurt by the bottom of the stairs. The house was dark save for the kitchen light, which was turned up only halfway, leaving a soft trail of illumination from the front door to the kitchen table so Kurt could see where he was going.

He placed his bag on the floor, gathered up the bucket, and walked it out to the garage. There he filled the bucket with water and liquid soap, and placed the ragged dishtowel and worn sponge on top after he snapped the lid shut. He carried the items to Burt’s ratty gray truck and safely nestled them in the back of it, tucking the bucket into the crevice behind his seat.

Then Kurt went upstairs and fell fitfully into sleep.

*

When Burt woke Kurt at eight o’clock sharp, Kurt wasted no time flinging his covers off, making for his bathroom to begin his morning routine. Within a few minutes, the aroma of coffee drifted up the stairs, and Kurt began brushing his teeth. He skipped some major parts of his usual skincare regimen to save some time, and went back to his room to put his shoes on. When he went downstairs, Burt was waiting for him. The two of them looked at one another, both still in their pajamas, Burt holding his travel mug of coffee. With a nod of agreement, the two of them pulled their coats on, left the house together, and climbed into Burt’s truck.

Carole and Finn had left for the day, Finn having had some football conference or some sports-related event that Kurt hadn’t paid attention to when he’d announced it at dinner the night before, so Burt and Kurt were own their own for the rest of today. The drive seemed shorter than it had in the previous years, and when Burt parked his truck, Kurt grabbed the white-lidded bucket from the back and carried it down the asphalt path to the headstone that waited for them to arrive each year without fail.

Burt sipped his coffee as Kurt kneeled in front of the headstone, dragging the heavy bucket next to him. He popped the lid, shrugged out of his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and reached into the cold water.

Burt watched silently as Kurt scrubbed the stone down, removing twigs and dried crumbles of leaves, tossing the remnants of dead flowers away to be carried by the breeze. His teeth chattered – it was chilly this morning and the water on his skin didn’t help – but he didn’t stop until the stone positively shone. Then he recapped the bucket and dried his hands with the towel Burt offered him.

Kurt went back to the gravestone and sat in front of it, pulling his coat around him. He ran his fingers over the golden raised letters on the stone, the words scrawling through his head. Beloved wife and mother. The description didn’t come close enough to portraying who she really had been, yet it still remained dignified and respectful somehow.

“What did you bring?” Kurt asked softly then, keeping his eyes trained on the gravestone.

Burt stepped up next to him and placed a single red rose on the grass, the crimson petals brushing the cold gray marker.

“It’s beautiful,” Kurt complimented, and when Burt didn’t reply, his feelings weren’t hurt. He knew his father was undoubtedly listening and grateful for his son’s input.

Kurt reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a wrinkled piece of paper that had been folded over many times. “I wrote her a poem,” he explained quietly, then placed it underneath the corner of the stone, hooking it so that the wind could not catch it in the days when they were gone.

He stood and backed up to stand next to his father, who put his arm around Kurt. The two of them stood silently, letting their eyes roam over her name, her brief description, her gifts offered by the last two people in this town who still loved her.

Kurt looked up at his father.

“Breakfast?” Burt suggested quietly.

Kurt nodded, and they headed back to the car.

*

In the diner, Kurt sat across from his father, absently stirring his spoon through his cup of coffee. Minutes of comfortable silence passed before Burt spoke.

“Every day,” he began, looking at Kurt from underneath the bill of his ballcap, “I wish she was still here.”

Kurt nodded in agreement, leaning his head into one hand.

“But then I remember something,” Burt continued, staring intently at his son. He took a breath and let it out slowly. “I remember that I have you, and I think of how much you remind me of her.”

Kurt could feel the tears begin to build behind his eyes, but he held them in check.

“You’re so much like her, Kurt. And I couldn’t be more proud of that.” And his dad meant it.

“Dad,” Kurt began, but he couldn’t say anything else. The tears stung, and he cleared his throat, looking away.

Burt patted his son’s hand soothingly, and the two ate in silence for the rest of their morning meal.

*

Burt followed Kurt quietly through the aisles, watching as Kurt seemingly grabbed ingredients at random, tossing them unceremoniously into the shopping cart. This was the one day a year when Kurt went out in public in an outfit that was far from his usual impeccable style. Any other day, Kurt would be mortified to be seen in his pajamas, but today, it didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered to Kurt, right now in this grocery store, was picking the right combination to make the best quiche. So Burt merely followed along, neither protesting nor suggesting.

When it came time for checkout, Burt noticed that Kurt’s eyes were misting at the register. It wasn’t because of the cost; they hadn’t bought that much. But Kurt didn’t offer, and Burt didn’t ask. It was a tough day for the two of them, always.

*

Back at home, as per tradition, Burt settled into his chair in the living room, flicking the TV on, and Kurt climbed the stairs to his bedroom after putting the groceries away.

Kurt crawled into bed, arranging his pillows so he could sit up against his headboard, and let himself crawl through his feelings at the moment. They were used to this, Kurt and Burt, but something this year felt off, more ominous, and he hadn’t been able to pinpoint why.

So he focused intensely on his bed, feet curled up underneath him, eyes closed, and his mind wandered through the memory of his family before it was just two of them. He saw her smile, heard the peals of her laughter for a second at a time, smelled the smoke from his birthday candles as she helped him blow them out. He had been young when she died, but he still remembered the warmth he’d felt in her presence, the unconditional love. Her love had been safe and comforting every second she’d been in his life. She’d felt like home.

It took Kurt a few moments to realize that tears were streaming down his face as he remembered her, remembered how she made him felt. He loved his dad and honestly couldn’t ask for more in a father, and Carole was wonderful (and an amazing shopping companion to boot), but no one – not one single person – had ever replaced his mom. No one would ever be able to, nor would he want anyone to.

Kurt hadn’t cried like this in years. There had been a few renegade tears during past visits to the cemetery, but the salt water was running down his face in rivulets now, and he instinctively reached for his phone.

You home?

The text came back to him less than a minute later. Yeah. You okay?

He typed almost blindly. When can you get here?

The answer was instantaneous. Leaving now.

Kurt settled back on his pillows and swiped a hand across his face, drawing in a large breath and slowly letting it trickle out to somewhat deflate the pain.

*

When Blaine entered Kurt’s room, he found Kurt sitting on the edge of his bed, facing away from the door. One foot was on the floor, the other leg was bent up, foot resting on the mattress. Kurt’s head was sideways on his knee, cheek placed against his patella, and his eyes found Blaine instantly in the doorway, but he didn’t lift his head from its position.

Blaine sat carefully next to Kurt and placed his hand on the small of his back, over the soft cotton of Kurt’s pajama shirt. He waited for Kurt to speak.

“I usually don’t get upset like this,” Kurt croaked, briefly locking his gaze with Blaine’s. “But today…was different. I realized something.”

Blaine listened intently, rubbing circles soothingly on Kurt’s back.

“I realized that…” Kurt took a deep breath and picked his head up off his knee, turning to face Blaine fully. “We’re all moving on. Me and my dad. We’re moving on without her.”

Blaine watched him, trailing his eyes over Kurt’s saddened features with a kind expression on his face. Kurt reached out and stroked Blaine’s cheek, then dropped his hand to the mattress.

“Dad’s re-married,” Kurt continued. “And she’d be happy for him.” His eyes darted away from Blaine for a millisecond, but he refocused quickly. “But she’ll never see me sing at a competition, or go to senior prom…and she won’t be here to meet my husband someday. She won’t be able to watch me start a family and a life of my own.”

Blaine took Kurt’s hand and squeezed it gently. Kurt reciprocated and laced their fingers together. He leaned into Blaine, his head resting in the crook where shoulder met neck. Blaine kissed the top of his head, and Kurt’s tears seemed to evaporate almost immediately.

Blaine held him for a time, enveloping Kurt in that lovely simplicity he craved in moments like these, and Kurt felt the ache begin to ease. He closed his eyes and drank Blaine’s scent in, something warm and clean, fresh but inherent to Blaine.

Kurt sat up then and wiped his face completely dry. “Wanna watch with me?” he asked in a hopeful tone, a bashful smile coming to his face.

“Watch what?” Blaine asked, noticing immediately as the sparkle slowly crept back into Kurt’s crystal blue eyes. If all it took was a simple yes to Kurt’s small request, he was completely open to the idea, regardless of what they watched.

Kurt slid off the mattress without answering and dropped to the floor, reaching under the bed. He slowly dragged out a flat plastic storage container, which he opened and began to root around in. His hand came up with a black VHS tape, and he handed it to Blaine for safekeeping while he pushed the box back under the bed. “That,” he explained matter-of-factly as he straightened up.

Blaine turned the tape over in his hands, but there was no label or any distinct marking to aid him in discerning the contents of it. He held it out to Kurt, who took the tape and went to his VHS player across from them, on top of his shelf. He pushed the tape into the player and then crawled back onto his mattress to snuggle into his pillows.

Blaine kicked off his shoes and came up next to him, his arm slipping around Kurt and pulling him close. They stretched out together, Kurt leaning against Blaine’s chest, their feet tangled at the bottom of the bed. The first image of the video popped up on the TV screen, and Blaine realized what they were looking at without needing any further explanation.

They watched in silence for a few moments, then Kurt spoke against Blaine’s chest.

“I like seeing how happy they were, back in the day,” he murmured, and something had changed in his voice, something had switched from sadness to fondness. “It’s kind of been my own tradition to hole up here all day and just watch the parts I like over and over. Perhaps obsessively.”

He looked up at Blaine with a tiny grin, and Blaine kissed him gently.

“I hope I have a video like this someday,” Kurt sighed, settling back against Blaine’s torso, and Blaine knew he was speaking more to himself than anything else. There was no pressure on Blaine this day, no foreshadowing, no hinting at prospects.

“You will,” Blaine assured him, and they fell back into silence as the best man’s toast began.

They watched several parts over again, like the part where Burt embarrassed himself by dancing whenever he could (using whatever passed for dancing in Burt’s world), and the part where his mother hid behind her hands as Burt removed the garter and twirled it suggestively around his index finger, like a prize he had won. By the time the video had reached the section where the guests in attendance were wishing the newlyweds all the happiness in the world, Blaine realized that Kurt had fallen asleep against him, breathing evenly against his chest, eyes closed blissfully in slumber.

Blaine kissed Kurt’s head softly, and Kurt stirred momentarily.

“Don’t leave,” he mumbled, still half in the confines of sleep. “Please.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Blaine whispered back, and Kurt nodded off with a drowsy but contented smile.

*

An hour and a half later, Kurt woke with a start and quickly took his surroundings in. Blaine had said he was going to stay, he distinctly remembered that.

But his bed was empty.

Kurt got to his feet tiredly, rubbing his eyes as he made for the door. Coming down the stairs, he heard a muffled shout, and the whistle of a football game on TV. He rounded the corner to the living room to find Blaine on the couch with a soda in his hand, cheering with Burt as they watched the game together.

Clearly a big play had gone down, because both Blaine and Burt were grinning madly, and Blaine reached over to high-five him. They both settled back into their seats as Kurt came into the room.

Both Burt and Blaine smiled at Kurt as he surveyed the scene before him. “Hey there,” Blaine said sweetly. “Feeling better?”

Kurt slumped against the panel of the doorway leading into the living room. “Yes and no,” he answered truthfully. “Is the game almost over?”

“Four minutes,” Blaine responded, and in the background, Kurt heard his father groan at the TV, complaining under his breath about whatever had just happened onscreen.

Kurt nodded, and turned to leave. Blaine got up from the couch quickly, hastily placing his soda can on the handmade coasters Kurt had picked to match the living room d�cor. He caught Kurt’s hand just as he stepped out of the living room, and gave it a small tug.

“Hey,” he said softly, as Kurt turned to face him. “Are you mad at me?”

Kurt half-smiled at Blaine and shook his head. “Just sleepy,” he answered. “I could use some help in the kitchen, though.”

Blaine opened his mouth, presumably to reply with, “Okay,” but a hoot from Burt in the living room interrupted him, and suddenly Burt was beckoning Blaine back to the game, shouting something about a fumble. Blaine looked helplessly from Kurt to the doorway of the living room, unable to come up with something to say.

Kurt laughed under his breath and squeezed Blaine’s hand. “In four minutes, you’re mine,” he said warningly, but he was grinning.

Blaine pecked him on the mouth. “I’m always yours,” he replied softly. “Bet your butt I’ll be in the kitchen in four minutes with you.” He winked and Kurt pushed him playfully back in Burt’s direction.

Turned out, “four minutes” really meant half an hour in football time, but Kurt didn’t mind. He set his ingredients about in the kitchen, readying them for use while enjoying the hollering and high-fiving that continued across the way in the living room. Kurt tied on his favorite apron and had just slipped his crust into the oven when Blaine appeared next to him at the counter.

Kurt immediately set him to work dicing the peppers and onions, while Kurt cracked eggs into a bowl and beat them together with a measure of milk. Both boys were silent for a few moments, concentrating on their tasks, then carefully, Blaine asked, “So…why today? Is it always the same day?”

Kurt looked up from his mixing bowl, stilling the whisk in his hand, and sought Blaine’s gaze. “Today’s my mom’s birthday,” he answered simply. “We always do this on her birthday.”

Blaine nodded with that adorable “Oh” face that Kurt loved.

“But we’ve decided that I do the cooking today,” Kurt elaborated with a knowing smile. “Since Dad’s roast chicken debacle still haunts our past, I thought it best that I try my hand at dinner for a while.”

Blaine grinned, and the timer for the oven went off. Kurt removed his crust and poured some of his egg concoction into it, adding Blaine’s chopped vegetables and then another pour of egg on top. He passed the sausage to Blaine for cutting then, and took up shredding the cheese for himself.

“Thanks…for being here,” Kurt said slowly. It seemed funny to thank Blaine for coming over, considering they were boyfriends and Blaine cared deeply for him, but Blaine only knew half the story and seemed completely fine with finding out the rest over time, maybe even in pieces. Patience wasn’t something Kurt had initially demanded in a boyfriend, but it seemed that it was just as vital as every other thing Kurt adored about Blaine.

Blaine grinned back at him and broke out into an awful, cheesy singing voice. “Whenever you want me, I’ll be there,” he crooned ridiculously, holding his knife like a microphone, eyes closed tight. “Whenever you need me, I’ll be there…” He executed a perfect spin, knife still in hand, a charming smile overtaking his face as he locked eyes with Kurt. “I’ll be around…”

Kurt scoffed in half-amusement and half-embarrassment, tossing a towel at his stupidly wonderful boyfriend’s face. “Nerd,” he admonished, but Blaine merely grinned harder in response and returned silently to his work.

Finally, all the ingredients had been added, topped with the last bit of egg mix, and the quiche was starting to bake nicely in the oven. Kurt hung his apron back up and moved against Blaine, where the two of them leaned against the counter. He ran his hand lovingly down Blaine’s cheek – which seemed to have become his signature move with the two of them – and kissed Blaine lightly, endearingly.

“Love you,” he breathed, and Blaine tugged him closer, their lips reconnecting.

“Love you too,” Blaine whispered back, eyelashes sweeping over Kurt’s cheek.

The front door opened then, and Carole’s voice rung out in the foyer. Kurt heard the familiar clomping of Finn’s cleats on the front tile, which usually sent chills of incredulity down Kurt’s spine. That tile was imported from Italy and cost more than any of them were worth, but today he let it slide, especially since Blaine’s wonderful eyes were holding his own so steadily.

For whatever reason Kurt honestly didn’t care about, Finn and Carole were home from the football conference early, so they were going to join for dinner when it was ready. They had about forty-five minutes till the quiche would be done, so Kurt took Blaine’s hand and pulled him into the living room, stopping just within the doorway.

Carole and Finn were lounging on the couch, Finn’s cleats kicked off on the floor next to him. He was already engrossed in whatever game Burt had changed the channel to, and Carole was running a hand over her forehead wearily. She and Finn had been up early and out the door this morning, even before Burt had woken Kurt.

She smiled at Kurt and Blaine anyway, letting her hand drop to the couch cushion. “Hi guys,” she greeted them happily.

Kurt and Blaine said hello back, still clutching hands, and then Kurt turned to his dad and asked, “Where’s the hook for the attic?”

Burt looked briefly away from his game, his eyes roving over Kurt, who tightened his grip on Blaine.

“It’s in the linen closet upstairs,” Burt replied then, and Kurt was grateful that he didn’t ask. They both knew what had been stored in the attic years ago, and Burt likely understood why Kurt was inquiring so abruptly.

Kurt thanked his dad and then pulled Blaine up to the second floor of the house with him. Blaine watched Kurt retrieve the hook from inside the linen closet, then they made their way down the hall, past Finn’s room, and up to the attic door. It was on old-style door, parting from the ceiling with a creak as Kurt fit the hook into the metal loop attached to it and pulled down toward him. Blaine helped unfurl the length of folded steps, and then he followed Kurt up, into the duskiness that was half-lit by dying sunlight.

There wasn’t room to stand, so Blaine crawled after Kurt and sat down next to him when Kurt stopped on his knees in front of a collection of boxes on the floor.

Kurt settled himself primly, then ran his hand over the corner of the box closest to him, touching the cardboard much in the same manner as he had caressed Blaine’s cheek in the kitchen earlier. On each box was his mother’s name, printed in Burt’s slanted, tight handwriting, the black ink having bled into the fibers of each parcel from years of storage.

Blaine slid closer to Kurt, their bodies slotting together but not quite touching, his chin coming over Kurt’s right shoulder. He could feel Kurt’s body heat as he reached into the box in front of him and started carefully removing objects from inside.

There were books and magazines (a healthy stack of Cosmo and Vogue, Blaine noted), a throw blanket that had been crocheted in muted pinks and greens, a pair of worn fuzzy blue slippers, and random tchotchkes that Kurt gave a glimpse of a smile at as they passed from his hand to the floor. He fingered a white porcelain teapot that was too small to be functional, then gingerly set it aside and reached back into the box. The last item that came out was a wire picture frame that had daisies punctuating each corner.

Blaine had been content to watch Kurt shuffle through his mother’s belongings without really including him in the memories, but when Kurt picked up the frame, he tilted it so Blaine could see the photo tucked into it.

Kurt smiled at Blaine shyly over his shoulder, and Blaine kissed his temple comfortingly in response. Kurt’s intake of breath trembled before he spoke. “This is my favorite picture of my mom.” He held the photo up further towards Blaine’s face, and at this angle, Blaine noticed something he hadn’t been able to see before.

“She’s pregnant,” he stated in surprise.

Kurt nodded in agreement, gazing down at the picture.

It seemed silly to ask, but Blaine did anyway. “You?”

Kurt nodded again and looked back up at Blaine, his blue eyes still light in the partial darkness. “My dad took this picture. He used to have it sitting out in the living room, on the shelf with the stereo. But after she died…” Kurt’s voiced trailed off. He placed the frame in his lap, fingers tightly grasping the edges. “I don’t remember this, but Dad told me that I begged him to put it away. The picture used to make me cry all the time. So he packed it up, along with everything else. We didn’t sell one thing that had once belonged to her.”

Blaine leaned into Kurt’s shoulder, pulling him close and wrapping his arms around his waist. Kurt melted back into him, and Blaine kissed his shoulder through his shirt. They stayed entwined like that for a while, Kurt resting against Blaine, their body heat gently mingling, until Kurt broke the silence.

“I don’t want it to be packed away anymore.” He pulled the photo up to his chest, hugging it possessively. “I think I’m going to keep this downstairs with me from now on.”

Blaine nodded, and Kurt leaned his head back against Blaine’s, still holding the frame to his body.

“Boys?” Carole’s voice sounded from the bottom of the attic stairs. “Kurt, your timer just went off.”

Kurt took a breath, and it seemed steadier this time. “Okay,” he called back. “We’re coming down now.”

Carole made a noise to indicate that she heard him, and then Blaine helped Kurt replace the items back into the box, save for the picture still resting in his lap. Kurt put the lid back on the box and they exited the attic, curling the stairs back up and carefully replacing the door. They stopped to deposit the hook back into the linen closet, and as they passed Kurt’s room on their way to the stairs, he slipped into it and placed the frame on his vanity, where he could see it when he sat in front of the mirror every night.

In the dining room downstairs, Kurt served up his quiche, which thankfully had been big enough to feed the whole family and then some. Before Finn could ask for seconds, Kurt proposed a toast. Carole and Burt raised their wine glasses, Kurt and Blaine lifted their water, and Finn – with a confused but overall accepting look on his face – raised his milk glass.

It was silent for a beat, everyone still, waiting for Kurt to speak. He looked at no one in particular as he said, “Happy Birthday, Mom.”

Burt raised his glass a little higher at Kurt’s words, and they all clinked their cups together before resuming their meal. Upstairs, on Kurt’s vanity, held inside the wire picture frame, Elizabeth Hummel laughed wholeheartedly, her face caught forever in a grin that stretched across her lovely features as she rested one hand lovingly on her protruding belly and demurely tucked a fallen strand of hair behind her ear.