Blaine walks into the loft, shivering from the chill that’s lingered in the air, a residual reminder that winter is behind them and spring just around the corner. He shrugs off his coat and sees Kurt seated at the kitchen table, engrossed in a letter he has clutched in his fingers.

“Hey, babe,” Blaine says, walking up to his fiancé and kissing him on the forehead. Kurt kisses the air around Blaine, still reading. “Whatcha reading?”

“Hm? I got this strange letter in the mail.”

“Kurt,” Blaine says, looking pointedly at the bizarre pile of brightly colored envelopes spread across the kitchen table, “they’re all a little odd. I mean, who even sends snail mail anymore?”

“Yeah, but this one came with a very interesting picture.”

“If it’s anything like the last picture, I don’t think I want to see it.” Blaine shudders over the memory of the photograph they received in the mail about a month ago. He didn’t even know that someone could purchase a diaper-thong, not to mention in a size that would fit a grown man.

Kurt picks up an almost perfectly square, blue envelope, and pries out a 4x6 photograph.

“Be careful with it,” he says, handing it over to Blaine.

Blaine looks closely at the picture of a strikingly blue fantail fish, hovering happily inside the glass of its bowl. In the foreground, he sees a Dalton patch. Blaine’s nose scrunches in confusion as he considers the picture.

“Who is this?” Blaine asks, handing the picture back to Kurt.

“This,” Kurt says, “is Dalton. A very beloved fish who recently passed away.”

“Oh. That’s so sad.”

“Yeah,” Kurt agrees. “Listen… ‘Here is a picture of Dalton, loyal friend and noble companion, who recently passed over the Rainbow Bridge. If it’s not too much trouble, maybe you guys might consider giving him a Pavarotti-worthy memorial. If any little guy ever deserved to be canonized in such a solemn fashion, it’s Dalton. Sincerely, an anonymous friend.’”

Blaine watches Kurt silently as he thinks and plans and calculates.

“Soooo do you want some help with this?” Blaine asks, knowing that a fishie funeral is already a foregone conclusion.

“Yeah, could you?” Kurt says, gesturing vaguely to their bedroom.

“I got you,” Blaine says, kissing Kurt one more time before shuffling off to gather together Kurt’s gear.

***

“Did anyone see where I left my purse?” Santana calls out as she rushes into the loft, breezing past the kitchen table where a sullen Kurt and Blaine sit, fascinated by a seemingly ordinary picture of a fish. She does a double-take though when she notices the mounds of arts and crafts supplies scattered all over the Formica surface.

“Uh, are you guys preparing for your surprise inspection from Martha Stewart?” she asks.

“Here,” Blaine says in response, passing her the now crumpled note while simultaneously handing Kurt a clear cube filled with crystal stars.

Santana takes the letter and skims through it, then returns to the top to re-read it word for word.

“This is the third letter that you guys have showed me that mentions you being on some kind of show.”

“Yeah. I know,” Kurt answers distractedly.

“Well, have you noticed the rise in anonymous fan mail we get now that Blaine and Sam have moved in? And that ‘show’ reference…are we certain that Sam didn’t plant web cams all over and our lives are being broadcast?”

Santana throws her hands up to cover her cleavage, but Kurt catches her hook her thumbs in the low-cut neckline of her dress and tug it lower.

“I signed up for a penpal on the show choir blogs,” Blaine assures her. “That has to be where all the letters are coming from.”

“Well, I hope so, because if I see an ad for ‘Kurt and Blaine Flip-Fuck XXX’ and I find out I’m not getting any royalties, I’ll be coming after both of you.” Santana looks down at the photograph of the little fish, carefully mounted in a glass-and-wood frame. “He definitely looks like a…” Santana picks up the letter and reads through it again, “noble and loyal fish. I hope whatever lunatic sent you this picture appreciates all the hard work you’re putting into this.”

“I’m sure they do,” Kurt says with a wistful smile. He watches Santana pick up her coat and head for the door. “Wait? Don’t you want to stay for the funeral?”

“You celebrate life in your way,” she says, gesturing to the kitchen table, “with lots of glitter and glue apparently, and I’ll celebrate it my way. With hard alcohol and sex.”

Santana’s eyes soften at Kurt’s tiny, unintentional frown. She back tracks to the kitchen and kisses Kurt and Blaine on the forehead.

“You’re doing a good thing, Burt and Ernie,” she says, then heads for the door one last time and leaves.

Kurt sighs as he looks at his masterpiece. The 4x6 frame he repurposed from an old picture of him and Rachel in the green room at one of their many show choir competitions sparkles with every conceivable bauble he has in his train case of tricks – pearls and tiny rubies creep along the perimeter in a rickrack pattern, the remaining spaces filled in with crystal stars.

“I think that’s it,” Blaine confirms, peeking over his fiancé’s shoulder at the photo of the serene blue fish, fanning out its gorgeous, delicate fins shy of the Dalton ‘D’.

“It actually needs just one more final touch,” Kurt says, reaching across the table for a plastic spray bottle filled with vinegar and water, and an orange chamois. Kurt mists the glass in the frame and wipes it down with the cloth until it gleams. Then he wraps the frame carefully in newspaper to keep it safe while they travel. They put on their coats, and even though it’s close to sunset, they head off to Central Park with the picture frame tucked inside Kurt’s coat.

They walk in silence. It seems tacky to hold a conversation about mime class, or what they’re planning to do this weekend, while they’re on their way to a memorial.

Three subways and seven blocks later, they end up at the duck pond in Central Park. Blaine peeks around twice before taking out a large serving spoon he had hidden in his pocket. He drops to his knees, and shovels dirt quickly to construct a tiny grave. Kurt keeps watch. They discovered pretty early on that security gets kind of annoyed when you start burying things in Central Park.

“Okay…that should do it.” When Blaine finishes, he reaches up for the picture frame. Kurt kisses the paper, and hands it off to his fiancé, who places it in the hole and covers it up.

“Good-bye, Dalton,” Kurt says. “We didn’t know you, but you looked like a happy little fish.”

“Yeah,” Blaine agrees. “Have fun with all the other fishies on the Rainbow Bridge. Don’t get into too many fights.”

Blaine pats the dirt over the hole and stands, brushing off his damp knees. He looks at his fiancé, frowning at the dirt.

“Are you okay?” Blaine asks Kurt with an arm around his shoulder.

“Yeah, I just don’t want to have to bury anyone else for a while.”

“I understand.” Blaine hugs Kurt, hands rubbing soothingly over Kurt’s arms.

Kurt sighs. “So,” he says, eager to shrug off the current unhappiness, “what are you in the mood to do now?”

Blaine looks into Kurt’s face with a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. “Do you want to go back to the loft and start filming that porno Santana was talking about?”

Kurt smirks, taking Blaine’s arm and leading him back toward the subway in wordless consent. “Why does Santana think she’s going to get royalties?” Kurt asks, the two of them strolling away from the gravesite to avoid arousing suspicion.

“I have no idea.”