Dismiss Your Fears

The risk of love is loss, and the price of loss is grief--
But the pain of grief
Is only a shadow
When compared with the pain
Of never risking love.
Hilary Stanton Zunin

-

Kurt woke to the sound of beeping. He'd gotten used to the sound of it in the past week. It was a comfort, almost. It let him know that nothing had happened while he slept. His father was still alive and there was still hope that he would wake up.

Kurt stretched, grimacing at the fuzzy taste in his mouth and the ache in his neck. He'd fallen asleep at the hospital again. The nurses had tried to stop him the first time, but after he'd promptly insulted their looks, intelligence, fashion choices, and family connections, they'd left him alone. Kurt preferred it that way. He didn't want their kindness and he didn't want their pity. He wanted them to do their job and help his father wake up.

His dad looked peaceful. Kurt took his hand and carefully squeezed it. He took a long, shuddery breath when there was no response. His eyes felt dry and itchy. He'd cried so much this week that he didn't know that he had any tears left to spare. Kurt bent over and kissed his dad's hand. He even managed to smile when he imagined his father's flustered and awkward expression if Kurt had kissed his hand while he was awake. He'd be pleased with the gesture – Kurt rarely showed physical affection beyond a few hugs when they were having an emotional conversation . . . . Kurt's smile disappeared. He regretted that distance between them now.

"Good morning, Dad," he murmured. He'd been talking to his dad as much as he could. He remembered reading somewhere that some doctors thought coma patients could hear things going around them. "I guess I slept here again," he told his dad. "I know you probably aren't happy about it, but I don't like to go home. It seems really empty without you there."

Kurt sighed. With his free hand, he adjusted his bangs. He hadn't been taking care of himself much for the past week, and his hair was a wreck. Kurt really couldn't bring himself to care. Not when his dad was lying in a hospital bed, comatose.

"I'll probably have to head home soon," Kurt said quietly. He glanced at the clock in the corner of the room. 12:01 am, it read. He grimaced. "Maybe I'll just stay here for the night," he said.

For a while he was quiet, staring at his dad's chest. It was still rising and falling. If he could have done it without upsetting the various wires and tubes inserted in him, Kurt would've been on the bed in an instant, his head pressed to his dad's chest, listening to the beating heart that told him Burt was still alive. Instead, he pressed his index finger into the pulse point on his dad's wrist. The sluggish beat there relieved him. Still alive, he thought, as he had every time he visited. He always checked.

Kurt sighed, looking down at his dad. Being in the hospital all the time, talking to his dad all the time brought up memories. For the most part, Kurt's childhood had been a blur: the only clear spot he could truly remember was his mother's death. But the mind was a funny thing. Spending all this time with his dad and talking to him as Kurt did . . . it brought back memories. Sometimes he would just be sitting quietly, not thinking about anything, and then a memory would hit him. It would be something that he'd completely forgotten about until then, a memory that had blurred and disappeared as he'd gotten older.

For instance, as he stared at his father, Kurt suddenly remembered his seventh birthday party. It had been a small affair, only him and his parents. His mother had been at work for most of the day, but his dad had stayed home to be with Kurt. Kurt smiled a little.

"Dad," he started quietly, "do you remember my seventh birthday party? Mom was at work and you made a picnic . . . . Well, Mom made a picnic,” he amended with small smile. “You still couldn’t cook without burning the kitchen down.” He stared down at his father’s hand for a moment.

“I’d seen Aladdin for the first time the day before, I think,” he continued quietly. “And I remember telling you how much I loved it . . . . Or, more specifically, how pretty I thought Aladdin was.” Kurt shook his head with a small laugh. “Honestly, looking back, I’m not really surprised that you knew I was gay. What kind of normal seven-year-old boy thinks Aladdin is prettier than Jasmine?”

Kurt bit his lip, laughter dying. “I remember saying that I wanted to find someone to sing songs with, since that would show we were in love. And even then, even knowing that I was probably thinking of a boy in the future instead of a girl, you told me that you wanted that for me too, that I’d find it someday.”

"You're such an amazing person. I could never have asked for a better father." He bent his head and kissed his father's hand again. "I just wish you would wake up." He pressed his forehead to his dad's hand for a long time. "Please wake up," he whispered, closing his eyes.

A knock on the door. Kurt tensed, looking up. The doctors never knocked, nor did the nurses. Which meant it could only be his friends. Kurt bit his lip. He loved his friends, he did, but he hated that they couldn't respect his wishes about keeping their prayers to themselves. He understood that they were spiritual and they believed in God, but he didn't, and he wished that they could extend that understanding to him as well.

Kurt sighed and stood. Better to get it over with. Hopefully it was Mercedes and not Rachel. Mercedes, at least, attempted to understand.

"Come in," he said.

The door opened and Kurt's jaw dropped. It wasn't Mercedes or Rachel or any of his other friends. Instead, his Aunt Helen stood in the doorway, her clothes rumpled, a wild look on her face.

"Kurt!" she cried, striding across the room to catch him in a strong hug. She was shorter and smaller than he remembered, but her hug was a force of nature. "Oh honey, I just heard! I'm sorry it took me so long to get out here, I got the first flight I could—"

"Aunt Helen?" Kurt asked in disbelief. "You're—How did you—?"

"Carole called me," Helen told him, taking his hands in hers. Her hands were small but strong, and her grip was tight. "She told me she remembered Burt talking about having a sister and had to track me down when he—well. I was out of the door the moment I was off the phone with her." She looked Kurt over and her eyes softened. "Oh, honey. You look like shit. Have you been sleeping here?"

Kurt felt a little shaken. "Yes," he said. "I didn't—I couldn't—The house felt empty," he said.

Helen shook her head. "Aren't nurses supposed to keep you from doing things like that?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

Kurt shrugged. "I kind of told them that their efforts wouldn't be appreciated."

Helen laughed. "Gave 'em hell, huh?" she asked knowingly. "Good. Burt needs you with him." She dropped Kurt's hand and stepped around him to her brother's side. "How is he? Have the doctors said anything about how he's improving?"

Kurt bit his lip. "It's not looking good," he said. "The doctor—the doctor says that with every day he spends in the coma the likelihood of his waking up goes down. Or that if he does, then there's a likely possibility that he'll be a vegetable."

Helen's eyes looked bright. She took one of Burt's hands into her own. "Oh, Burt," she murmured.

Kurt looked away. Helen had never been a frequent visitor to their home. Kurt could count the amount of times she'd visited on one hand. In fact, he'd thought that and his dad had never gotten along, though his dad had never mentioned a feud between them to Kurt. That was why he hadn't called her when his dad had fallen into his coma. He'd thought she wouldn't care. Turning back and seeing how she clung to Burt's hand, staring down at his body, Kurt revised his opinion. Obviously she did care. Kurt wondered why she'd stayed away so much if she loved his dad so much.

"Kurt?" Helen asked, turning back to him, letting go of Burt's hand with a final pat. "Did you want to go home? I'd like to stay, but it's late and you look like you could do with a shower and night in a real bed." She smiled a little bit. "I'd kind of like one too, to be honest."

Kurt frowned. He didn't want to go home. He wanted to stay with his dad. But he knew that his aunt was probably tired and crusty from traveling, and the idea of a bed did sound very nice. And he wouldn't be alone in the house anymore. Helen would be there to drive away the silence and the loneliness, even if she wasn't Burt.

"Alright," he said.

-

The house was cold and dark. Kurt hadn't spent much time in it in the last few days. Whenever he opened the door, he half-expected his dad to be there, watching television or attempting to cook something or sitting on the couch, immersed in the Sports section of the newspaper.

"I'll set you up in the guest bedroom," Kurt told Helen quietly as they entered. She nodded, her eyes dark and understanding, and moved into the kitchen.

"I'll make us some food," she called over her shoulder.

Kurt had to turn away. There were too many memories in that kitchen. His dad, botching up every dinner he'd ever attempted. Learning how to cook, slowly and carefully, from his mother when he was six years old. His mother's bright laughter and her warm eyes as she made dinner every night, singing loudly and dancing with a bowl in her hand. Kurt shivered and hurried up the stairs.

The guest bedroom was cluttered with junk: they didn't usually have guests apart from occasional visits from Helen and Kurt's grandmother. Kurt slowly cleared it out or put it away, then laid down new sheets and pillow cases. Downstairs, he could hear his aunt singing. Kurt smiled a little. She sang better than his father had.

Does, Kurt reminded himself. She sings better than dad does. Using the past tense is the same as giving up. He eyed the newly made room then went downstairs. The smell of warm food was welcome and it brightened up the house more than turning on the lights had. Helen stood at the oven, flipping something in a pan.

"What are you making?" he asked, sitting down at the kitchen table.

"Stir-fry," she said. "I hope your greens are still good."

Kurt shrugged. "Probably," he said. He couldn't remember when he'd bought them.

"Well, it was either this or pancakes, and I wasn't in the mood for breakfast food," she said.

They were both silent for a long time. Helen finished the stir-fry easily, proving to be a better cook than Burt as well as a better singer, and she deftly set the table and poured out their portions. She settled into the seat across from Kurt's and they both ate. Kurt barely tasted it. He finished before Helen and took his plate to the sink to rinse off and put in the dishwasher. He made a mental note to clean it out as he did – it had been growing full in the last week despite how little time Kurt had spent at home.

"You know," Helen said from the table, "I always thought that out of the two of us, I'd be the first to go."

Kurt tensed. His hand tightened around the fork he was cleaning. Helen either didn't notice his reaction or ignored it.

"I mean, I was always the one getting into trouble when we were little, you know? I was always climbing trees and falling out of them, or getting into car accidents, or falling off of buildings or down stairs . . . Burt was always so dependable. He never got into fights, never broke a bone, not even in football. When he drove, it was always at the speed limit." Helen sighed. "I guess I always thought he'd live to be old and grey – or, well, bald – and I'd be the one dead at forty-eight."

"Stop it," Kurt said sharply. "Stop—stop talking like that."

"Kurt?" his aunt said. He heard her get up. "What are you—"

"Stop saying that he's going to die!" he said, not turning around. "He's not! You're talking like he's—like he's already dead and buried!"

"Oh Kurt," she said. Kurt hated her pity. "Kurt, you know I want Burt to live, but honey, he's already been out for a week—"

"The doctors say he needs time," Kurt said tightly.

"The doctors also don't know if he's ever going to wake up," Helen said. Bluntness ran in the Hummel genes. "Kurt, you have to be realistic about this. Burt might—"

"He's not going to leave me," Kurt said forcefully, throwing the fork into the sink. "He's not. Just shut up!"

"Kurt," Helen tried again, reaching out to him.

Kurt twisted away from his grip. Without looking at her, he hurried upstairs. He could feel the tears burning behind his eyes. He was surprised he had any left at all.

-

He woke up the next morning groggy and irritable. His eyes felt dried out and gritty and he tried to rub some moisture into them with little success. Grumbling under his breath, he got out of bed and made his way downstairs.

Helen was already awake and in the kitchen. Upon seeing her, Kurt paused, unsure of their standing after the argument last night. He hovered uncertainly outside of the kitchen door until his stomach grumbled loudly. Helen turned to look at him. She looked tired, but not angry. She even smiled at him.

"Come on in," she said. "I made those pancakes."

Kurt slid inside. He didn’t feel ashamed for what he’d said, not really, but he did regret yelling at her.

“Here,” she said, putting pancakes on his plate.

Kurt inhaled three before he put his fork down. In the back of his mind, a little voice was whispering that it’d all go down to his hips, but he ignored it. The pancakes were warm and they tasted good, and he could deal with a little fat for that.

“I was thinking we’d head over to the hospital after we’re done eating,” Helen said, eating her own pancakes at a slower pace.

“Alright,” Kurt agreed. His voice sounded croaky. He wanted to add something. Maybe a sorry or maybe a demand to know why she was dooming his father already, but he couldn’t get the words out.

He sat at the table while Helen ate her pancakes. When she was on her last one, the phone rang.

Kurt tensed. Helen froze, then slowly put down her fork. She got up and went to the phone. She stared at the caller ID for a long time. Kurt thought she was going to let the call ring out, that maybe it was a telemarketer or someone Helen didn’t know calling for Burt, and he relaxed a little bit. Then Helen picked it up.

“This is Helen Hummel,” she said. She listened for a moment, then said, “Kurt is here, yes, but I’m his aunt. I’d prefer it if you gave the information to me instead.” Kurt was having difficulty breathing. Good news, he thought desperately. Let it be good news. Helen was listening intently. Her face gave nothing away. “I see,” she said finally. “We’ll come in as soon as we can. Yes, thank you. Have a good day.”

Gently, she set the phone back down.

Kurt stared at her. His breath was coming in shallow gasps and his hands were tingling. It has to be good news, he thought desperately. It has to be, it has to be, it—

“Kurt,” Helen said. The tenderness in her voice gave her away.

Kurt crumpled in on himself. He didn’t cry, not really, but he couldn’t breathe and he could feel the pancakes he’d just eaten coming back up. He felt Helen’s hand on his head, then encircling him. He buried his head in her shirt.

"He's—" She couldn't get the words out. "He's gone, Kurt. He had another heart attack this morning and they lost him."

She made it sound like he’d simply wandered away, Kurt thought hysterically. As if they could wait a little while and he’d find his way back. Bile gathered in the back of his throat. Hastily, he shoved Helen away and hurried to the sink, where he threw up his pancakes and the remains of last night’s dinner. He heaved for a long time, even when there was nothing left to throw up, and he stayed at the sink, trembling and dry-eyed, only the counter top keeping him from collapsing.

“Kurt,” Helen said. Her voice sounded thick with tears. Kurt didn’t turn around to see if she was crying. He didn’t think he could move. She came up behind him and drew him into her arms. Kurt went without resistance. “Kurt, it’s going to be okay—“

Rage, sudden and violent, swelled up and Kurt shoved her away. “No it’s not,” he spat. “How can it be okay when he’s gone. He just—he left me. He promised that he never would, but he—“Kurt turned away from her, rage disappearing as quickly as it had arrived. “He promised,” he whispered, more to himself than to Helen.

"I'm sorry," Helen said, drawing him back in. "Kiddo, I'm so, so sorry."

"It's not good enough," Kurt said. His throat was closing up. There weren't any tears – he'd used them all up already. His throat felt painfully tight, though, and he wondered why he was even talking. What was the use of words when his father would never speak again? What was the use of talking, of laughing, of singing? What could anyone possibly say to make this better? Nothing, Kurt thought. Nothing can ever make it better.

Helen was hugging him tight. "I'm sorry," she muttered, over and over again.

"He's dead," Kurt said, throat almost closing up as he said the words. "Sorry doesn't help much."

He drew away from Helen's arms. She tried to reel him back in, but he twisted around her and moved out of the kitchen and out of his house that contained so many memories of his father that it was hard to look at it without hurting. He didn't care where he was going, and he didn't care how he was going to get there. He just needed to get away.

-

The hospital was busy for the early morning, but Kurt ignored everyone else there. The receptionist at the front desk attempted to get him to stop from heading back without signing in, but Kurt ignored her and she couldn't keep up with his stride so she fell behind.

When he got to his father's room, he paused. The door was open a crack. Kurt took a deep breath and pushed it fully open. He stared at the empty, neatly made bed. Everything that had been on the table was gone – the flowers his friends and Mr. Schue had brought, the heart attack book from Brittany that Kurt had kept on the bedside table when he needed to laugh . . . everything.

"No," Kurt said, turning on his heel. He grabbed the first nurse he found. "My father, Burt Hummel, where did they put him?!" he asked. The nurse stared at him, wide-eyed. Kurt glared at her. "He's not in his room, where did they move him?" He shook her. "Where did they move him?!"

A hand touched his shoulder. Kurt whirled around to see his father's doctor behind him. Dr. Oliver was a young man with dark hair and eyes, and he'd been good to Kurt and Burt. Kurt stared up at him, hope rising.

"Kurt," Dr. Oliver said quietly, staring down at him with eyes that were filled with sympathy. Kurt relaxation turned into hatred. "Your father's body was taken to the morgue. I expect they'll be waiting for a visit from you to prepare the body."

"No," Kurt yelled, turning twisting out of Dr. Oliver's grip. "You're lying. He didn't—He's not—"

"Kurt, your father is dead," the doctor told him. His sympathetic look was fading to something sterner. "Trying to deny that isn't going to make it any less true."

"Doctor Oliver!" the nurse said sharply, giving Kurt a look. "He's just lost his father! Be a little kinder."

Kurt barely heard her. Everyone's saying he's dead, he thought, breathing shallowly. It isn't true. It can't be true. It's not, it's not, it's not-- Kurt struck out. Dr. Oliver, the closest one to him, was the one he hit in the chest. He stumbled backwards, looking a little startled.

"He's not dead!" Kurt shouted shrilly. "He's not!" He struck out again, this time hitting the doctor in the shoulder.

"Kurt—" Dr. Oliver tried to say, grabbing at his hands, but Kurt twisted away from his grip with one of the dance moves Brittany had taught him.

"He's not dead, he can't be!" Kurt shouted. "You're lying, you have to be—" The nurse grabbed his arms to prevent him from lashing out again. "No, let me go, I want my father!"

"Get me some sort of sedative," Dr. Oliver said to one of the nurses standing nearby, watching with wide eyes.

The nurse gasped, although her grip on Kurt's arms tightened as he attempted to slide away. "Doctor, is that a good idea? I mean, he's just grieving—"

"He needs to calm down," Dr. Oliver told her, eyeing Kurt. Kurt bared his teeth at him and tried to swing again. He's a liar, he thought desperately. He deserves a punch in the face for trying to tell me dad's dead—

"Here," one of the nurses said, handing the doctor a needle. Kurt struggled more, trying to get out of the grip on him.

"No, no, I just want my dad—"

"I'm sorry, Kurt," Dr. Oliver said. He didn't look very sorry – he looked almost relieved. "Look, this will just calm you down a bit okay? When you wake up, you'll feel . . . ." He hesitated. "Well, you'll feel different. Better, hopefully."

"No, you can't, I don't—" Kurt trailed off as they stuck the needle in his arm, draining his contents in his bloodstream. As the world slowly blacked out, he heard one of the nurses yelling something. Dr. Oliver replied and then everything was dark.

-

Kurt woke up slowly. For a moment, he just stared at the white ceiling. Then he sat up so fast his head spun.

He was in the hospital, on one of the beds. His aunt was snoozing in one of the chairs, her bag at her feet. As he watched her, she slowly slid awake. She didn't seem to realize he was awake for a moment, but then she lunged at him and drew him into a hug.

"Oh sweetheart," she said. "God, you scared me to death. And that doctor!" She let Kurt go and took his head, fuming at the wall above his head. "Oh, I gave him a piece of my mind. Giving sedatives to a grieving teenager! I imagine he'll be fired soon after what I told the Head of the Board. Honestly, what was running through his mind?! You don't give sedatives to the grieving relatives, you try and calm them down with your words. And now you've been out for a day, so clearly he not only gave you sedatives, he gave you an overdose of them, the idiot. And what if you'd been allergic? If that man isn't fired in the next week, I'm coming back and I'm suing the hospital."

Kurt stared at her. She was angry, that much was for certain, and her eyes were lit up with passion. But there were black circles underneath her bright eyes, and her hair looked unwashed and unkempt. Her skin was yellowing and her nails had been bitten down to the quick. Kurt wondered if it was because of him or Burt that she looked like she was about to keel over.

Kurt curled in on himself, sudden agony striking as he re-realized that Burt was dead. Not gone, not in the hospital, not in a coma: dead. He was never coming back. There would be no more awkward talks about boys, no more fixing cars side by side, no more cooking lessons to make sure someone other than Kurt knew how to make dinner, no more stories about his mother, no more—anything. It was all gone. Burt had been a person, he'd had memories and personality and laughter and tears and everything about him had just been erased, just like that.

Kurt put his head in his hands. Helen had finally stopped speaking.

"Kurt?" she asked tentatively, and Kurt wanted to scream at her, because if she'd been his dad she'd know what to do, but she wasn't his dad— "Kurt, are you . . . shit. I know you're not okay. Are you any better?"

Kurt didn't look up at her. His hands felt cool on his face, and it was nice not to see anything. He wished he could just never see anything again. What good were eyes when his father was dead? What good was fashion or singing or cooking when he'd never see Burt smile again, never hear him laugh or say "I'm proud of you" again? What good was there in a world where Burt Hummel wasn't alive?

"Kurt?" Helen asked again, putting her hand on Kurt's shoulder. Kurt pushed her away.

He stood, his legs still shaky, and tied his gown together with one hand so it wouldn't flap open in the back. Then, calmly as he could, he ran out. He heard his aunt calling after him, trying to chase him, he heard nurses yelling after him, but he didn't stop for anything, even when he felt like he could collapse.

-

"Kurt?" Mercedes said, eyes wide, standing on her doorstep. It was Saturday morning and she was dressed in her pajamas still. "Kurt? What is it? What happened? Why are you—Is that a hospital gown?!"

Kurt didn't explain.

He couldn't say anything anymore.

-

Kurt woke to a dark room and Mercedes' voice in the background.

"I think he's alright," she was saying. Kurt sat up on the couch. "He just came here and crashed." She paused, then said, "His dad's really dead?" Her voice was free of pity. She sounded close to tears. Kurt stood and made his way to the kitchen. Mercedes was leaning against the counter. She was staring down at her hands, misery plain on her face. Tears were gathering in her eyes. Kurt wondered why she could cry and he couldn't. "I'm so sorry, Ms. Hummel." She wiped at an eye. "Kurt can stay here for as long as he wants, you know. Although . . . ." Mercedes bit her lip.

"He hasn't spoken a word since he got here, Ms. Hummel. I mean, he crashed pretty much right away, but I didn't even know his dad was dead until you called. He hasn't said anything." She listened for a long time, then said, "Alright. I'll tell him when he wakes up." She put the phone down and turned.

"Kurt!" she said, jumping. "Geez, boy, you scared me." Kurt shrugged. Mercedes eyed him, then sighed. "Come on," she said, taking him by the elbow. Kurt flinched away from her. "You look like you could with a few more hours of sleep."

-

Kurt stayed at Mercedes' house until the next morning, when Helen showed up on the doorstep. She looked haggard and the skin around her eyes was red and puffy.

"Kurt, honey," she said, "You need to come home."

Kurt shook his head. Helen took his hands into hers.

"What is it?" she asked. "Why aren't you talking?"

I can't, Kurt thought. Words were too much effort, too much work. All he wanted to do was sleep. Sleep for days and weeks and months, sleep until he was dead so that he could see his dad again. He was willing to believe the afterlife existed if it meant he could be with his mom and dad. He'd believe anything for a chance at that.

"Kurt, the funeral is tomorrow," Helen told him, trying to be gentle. She wasn't used to it, Kurt could tell, but he appreciated the effort. "I know this hurts, but I need you to focus buddy. Why aren't you talking? Did something happen to your voice?"

Kurt bit his lip and sighed. He found a scrap of an open envelope and a pen.

I can't, he wrote.

Helen read it and a confused crease appeared in between her eyebrows. "You can't talk? Why?"

Kurt just shook his head. Helen gave him a look of dawning comprehension that softened into something very close to pity. Kurt glared at her.

"You can talk, but you don't want to," she said. Her voice was free of condemnation. "Well, then I guess we're gonna be buying a lot more paper for the future. I'm too old to learn sign language, kid."

Kurt blinked at her. He felt the odd urge to smile, because that was something his dad would've said—

The urge to smile disappeared.

-

The funeral was a small affair, attended only by Kurt, Helen, Carole and Finn. Mercedes had wanted to come, but Kurt had asked her not to. He watched silently as they lowered his father's casket into the ground. Helen had been the one to arrange it, and he was glad that she had chosen something a little more expensive. Of course, expense didn't really matter when it was a casket – who was going to judge it if it was cheap, the dead bodies in the ground? The grave robbers? Still, it gave Kurt a sense of comfort to know his dad wasn't just dumped into the ground. That he was resting in comfort, as it was.

He looked over at the small party. They were all dressed in black. Helen was staring at the casket, white-faced and dry-eyed, and Carole was dabbing at her eyes, her face blotchy from the crying she'd already done. Finn, to Kurt's surprise, was openly crying as well.

Kurt had never seen Finn cry. It was on the list of things that Real Men didn't do, and Finn always tried so hard to be a Real Man. He wasn't sobbing or anything, but as the ceremony went on, silent tears rolled down his face. Always the better son, Kurt thought, with a surprising lack of bitterness. He wished he could cry. His father deserved tears, he deserved grief, and he deserved every iota of sadness Kurt possessed. He deserved to be remembered and loved and grieved over. But Kurt was just so tired of tears, so tired of crying, so tired of everything. He just wanted to sleep.

Carole was crying too. Kurt wondered sometimes if his father would've married Carole. Kurt thought Burt would've. They had been good together – they'd grounded each other. Kurt had rarely seen his dad as happy as he had been with Carole.

They started to lower the casket into the ground. Helen grabbed onto Kurt's hand, squeezing it tightly in her own. Kurt let her, his eyes fixed on the slowly disappearing coffin. My heart's going into that ground, he thought.

The tears still didn't come.

-

Kurt didn't go back to school for another week. He lived in his house with his aunt, who was on her way to becoming his legal guardian: his father had specified in his will that it should be her or Kurt's grandmother who should take care of him. Burt had left everything to him – the house, Hummel's Tires and Lube, all of his money and shares and holdings. Until he turned 18, it would be managed by Helen. Kurt was fine with that – he didn't know what to do with it all. He'd always had a head for managing money, partly due to the budgeting he'd had to do to get certain clothes he wanted, but everything seemed too complicated to handle.

He spent the week in his room, in bed mostly. His phone had died sometime on the second day, and Kurt never bothered to recharge it. Silence was a blessed relief – it had been buzzing nearly nonstop since his dad's funeral. He asked Helen to turn away any of his friends if they came to visit, so he spent the week alone. He preferred it that way. No one expected him to talk if he was alone.

Sometimes, when Helen was away on business, he snuck out of his room and into his father's. Helen had taken up one of the guest rooms and hadn't had time to clean things out, so Burt's bedroom was mostly untouched. His shirts – all plaid and collared, no matter how many times Kurt had tried to dress him in something else – still hung in the closet. His toothbrush was still in the cup by the sink, next to his mother's, which Burt had never thrown out despite the years. It was old now, but Burt cleaned it regularly, which kept it from being disgusting.

Kurt liked to lie down in Burt's closet. It was a big one – not as big as Kurt's, but close – and it had enough room for Kurt to almost lie down fully. His father's scent – car oil, something woodsy and bit of the cologne his mother had gotten him in the habit of wearing – covered the closet. When Kurt closed his eyes and breathed in, he could almost pretend his father was there.

But then he opened his eyes and there were just shirt staring back at him. It was his mother's dresser 2.0, except it hurt so much worse.

After a week, Helen gently asked him if he was ready to go back to school. Kurt shrugged. He didn't care. He didn't care about a whole lot these days.

-

His first day back was strange, in both bad and good ways.

His friends treated him like he was made of spun glass. Mercedes was the only one who didn't offer her sympathies, but she took Kurt's arm whenever they had class together and glared at whoever did as if she expected the "I'm sorry your dad died" to send Kurt into a crying fit. Finn, who had already been at school for a few days, kept sending Kurt understanding looks.

He didn't get locker-checked or slushied all day. Kurt supposed that even bullying jocks had their moments of empathy. He doubted it would last long, but he felt a little touched. He hadn't thought that his bullies would care enough that his dad died to stop tormenting him.

Glee, however, was the worst.

He was ploughed over by Brittany when he first walked in. She looked like she had been crying quite a bit when she pulled back.

"I'm so sorry Kurt," she said, sniffling. "Maybe if I'd written my report in pen like the teacher said, your dad would still be alive."

Kurt bit his lip and looked around for paper. Finding none, he took out his phone and quickly made a text message. He still had Brittany's number from their faux-dating phase.

Brittany looked confused when she heard her phone ringing (Tik-Tok, Kurt noted with some amusement, the first he'd felt in days), but she hurried to answer it. She stared down at the message with large eyes.

It's not your fault, Brit. The doctors said your report helped them a lot. That was a lie. Dr. Oliver and the multiple nurses attending his father had given him strange looks when they'd seen the report lying on Burt's bedside table. But Kurt wasn't about to tell Brittany that when she was crying over a man she'd met once. She was silly sometimes, half-witted others, but Kurt could never say that she wasn't one of the nicest people he'd met. Sometimes he wondered how she'd become a Cheerio.

"Kurt?" Kurt turned to see Puck watching him. Puck looked uncharacteristically withdrawn and uncertain. "Are you alright, dude? Did something happen to your voice?"

Kurt sighed, opening his phone again. He didn't have Puck's number, so he just gave the phone to Puck after making the message.

I don't feel like talking, it said. Puck stared down at it for a moment, then shrugged.

"Alright," he said. He turned to the rest of the members who were there, all of them hanging back and curious. "Kurt's not gonna be talking today," he announced. "He'll talk to you through text and paper, alright?"

"What happened, dude?" Finn asked, stepping forward and looking concerned. Kurt shrugged. Finn looked a little hurt. "Did you hurt your throat or something, like Rachel did last year?"

Kurt shook his head. He wondered why it was such a big deal that he wasn't talking. He just didn't want to. Wasn't that enough of a reason?

"Kurt, as the captain of a club that is primarily focused on voice, I find your denial to use yours quite worrisome," Rachel cut in, standing next to Finn. "However, as you have recently suffered a horrible loss, I think I can speak for the club in saying that there's no need for you to talk or sing for the next few days unless you want to."

"Well, obviously," Mercedes said. "If my boy doesn't want to talk, he doesn't have to talk. Got it?"

"How're you holding up?" Quinn, who Kurt hadn't even noticed approaching, stepped close to him, examining him. Behind her, Rachel and Mercedes got into an argument about who would sing Kurt's part for him while he wasn't talking. Kurt sighed and made a so-so gesture with his hands. "You're not going to talk anytime soon, are you?" Quinn asked.

Kurt blinked at her, then frowned. He shrugged, then shook his head. He didn't know how soon he'd feel like talking again, but for the foreseeable future . . . No. Words were too complicated.

Quinn nodded. "I thought so," she muttered. "Kurt you know we all care about you, right? Even Santana. Even me," she added, smiling a little. Kurt remembered the end of last year, when he'd connected hers and Mercedes' hands with his own, their own silent pact of friendship, and swallowed hard. "So if you want to say anything – talk it, write it, whatever – we're here for you. I know it can be hard to lose someone." Her hands, almost involuntarily, went to her stomach.

Kurt looked away. He wanted to tell her that it wasn't the same, losing a baby you'd barely know and losing the man that raised you. But maybe it was. Quinn had carried that baby in her for nine months, had looked after her, and sometimes Kurt thought that Quinn had even loved her, no matter how much she seemed not to. Quinn was a parent who had lost her child, and Kurt was a child who'd lost his parent. It didn't matter that one had been voluntary, one forced. Quinn was just as hurt by her loss as Kurt was by his.

Kurt looked back at Quinn, who was watching him steadily. She was always smarter than people thought she was, Kurt thought. He nodded and signed Thank you, to her, the only piece of sign language he knew. She smiled at him, touched his arm, and made her way back to Sam Evans, who had recently joined the club. Kurt wondered if they were dating now, and eyed Puck, who was protesting that he could totally hit all the notes Kurt hit, and probably better too. Kurt wondered if Puck was okay with Quinn dating someone else. No one really knew where Puck and Quinn stood after the pregnancy.

Mr. Schue strode in, sheet music in hand. He paused upon seeing Kurt and put a hand on his shoulder. "How're you holding up?" he asked.

Just peachy, Kurt wanted to tell him. My father, the only living parent I had left and the person who loved me without judgment, just died after I watched him waste away in a hospital. I'm absolutely divine, Mr. Schue. He could already picture Schue's look. He remembered the awkward half-pause he'd taken when Kurt had made the crack about answering his phone by saying he wasn't his dead mother. Schue had never really known what to do with him – there was too much Finn in him, Kurt suspected, and not really all of the good parts. Finn, at least, knew how to be friends with him. Schue didn't even really get how to teach him.

Kurt didn’t pay attention as Schue started the club. He was going on about how they needed to be ready for Sectionals, and Kurt already knew where it would end. Rachel would get a solo, or a duet with Finn. There would be a group number. And probably, he thought bitterly, we won’t win.

He started as he realized Schue was gesturing for them to partner up. He looked around, wondering what he’d missed. Mercedes plopped down beside him.

“Duets competition,” she said softly. “Wanna be my partner?”

Kurt shrugged. Mercedes eyed him and sighed. “Alright. How about I pick the song and arrange it together? Sound like a plan, white boy?”

Kurt shrugged again. Mercedes started to look worried. “Kurt, are you sure you want to do this?” Kurt raised an eyebrow. “Come back to school, I mean. I know it’s still hard for you . . . . I mean, I wouldn’t blame you if you decided to stay home for another week or two. I have a cousin who lost her mom last year and she stayed out of school for six months. No one would blame you for not wanting to come back right away.”

Kurt didn’t tell her that he just couldn’t bring himself to care either way. He wasn’t sure if she realized that he wouldn’t be singing in it - perhaps he should talk to Schue, ask for an exempt from the assignment. He didn’t want Mercedes to lose simply because he didn’t want to talk or sing. And Mercedes deserved a better partner than he would be. Kurt stared at his hands, his chest aching a little. It’s not just Mercedes, Kurt thought slowly. It’s all of them. They need members who are going to give everything they’ve got for this club. And I can’t anymore. I don’t know if I’ll ever want to again. Every time he thought about singing, he kept remembering his dad’s disappointment during their last conversation. He kept remembering that he’d put singing before his dad and that it had ended with his dad dead. The thought of attempting to sing again just hurt too much.

With Puck back, we should have enough members, Kurt thought. And I’m sure they could convince someone else to join if they had to.

His hands were tense in his lap, the knuckles turning white. Kurt stared at them for a moment longer, than stood up. His friends didn’t notice at first, but as he strode over to Schue, they all fell silent, one by one. Kurt took out his phone, typed for a moment, then passed it to Schue, who was watching him curiously. Schue took it, then went pale. He looked at Kurt.

I’m quitting Glee, the message read.

“Kurt, you don’t have to do this,” he said softly, handing Kurt back his phone. “We’re willing to wait however long it takes for you to speak again, you know that. And even if you don’t, you can still be part of the club—“ Gasps rose among the listening Glee members. Kurt shook his head.

It hurts too much, he typed. I can’t. He gave the phone to Schue, who looked on the edge of tears. Kurt wished he’d stop—it was already hard enough to quit, and having Schuester look at him that way was making it worse.

“If you’re absolutely sure,” Schue said. Kurt nodded sharply. “Alright. Attention,” Schue turned to address the group, although he hadn’t needed to announce himself - they were all listening already anyways. “Kurt has decided that he’s going to take a break from Glee for an indefinite amount of time.” Finn stood up, looking outraged. Rachel, on the other hand, was staring at Kurt, her eyes glassy with shock. “Kurt, you know that your place will always be open to you,” Schue added more softly.

“What the hell dude?!” Finn said, stomping up to Kurt’s side. He tried to put a hand on Kurt’s shoulder, but Kurt flinched away. Finn looked hurt. “Why are you quitting?”

Kurt just shook his head. Finn wouldn’t understand. None of them really could. Finn had lost a parent, but it had been a parent he’d barely know and couldn’t even really remember - a parent he only knew through pictures and old relics like the stuff in his attic.

“Kurt, I understand this is a time of hardship for you, but singing is the perfect way to work your way through it and heal!” Rachel insisted almost desperately, coming up on Finn’s side. Her eyes looked suspiciously wet. “You and I share a similiar connection to music, so I think I can say with perfect understanding that singing is what helps you work through your emotions, especially during a time of emotional trauma. Quitting Glee will cut you off from being able to express yourself properly!”

Kurt put a hand on her arm and shook his head. He looked over at the rest of the group. Puck had also risen to his feet, staring at Kurt with a strange look on his face. Quinn and Mercedes were sharing the same expression - a sort of resigned hopelessness that told Kurt they’d seen this coming. Tina and Mike were discussing something furiously, gesturing at Kurt every once in a while, and Artie was trying to explain to Brittany why Kurt was leaving. Santana was on her other side, holding her hand and glaring at Kurt, either for leaving or for making Brittany feel bad - Kurt couldn’t tell which.

These people were his friends. They’d supported him as best they could during a dark period in his life - through several dark periods, actually. They’d given him acceptance when he’d thought he’d never experience any in his high school years. They’d protected him and even loved him. And quitting Glee wouldn’t be the end of that - but it would cut all of their closest ties, and Kurt knew enough about friendships to know that they could disintegrate so easily without something to hold people together. A deep part of him didn’t want that to happen, wanted to cling to the people who had given him so much. But a much bigger part was just so tired.

I’m sorry, Kurt typed out for Finn. I need to go. He left before Finn could give him his phone back, ignoring all of the calls to come back.

-

Kurt stood outside, gasping for breath. He listened for a moment for anyone coming after him - it seemed all of the Glee members were content to let him go. He sighed, relaxing against the wall and closing his eyes.

“Ladyface.”

Kurt sighed again, more heavily. He opened his eyes, looking up into Sue Sylvester’s face. She wasn’t sneering at him, which was a start, but her eyebrows were drawn together, and her lips were twisted into a scowl. Kurt raised an eyebrow.

“Isn’t your insipid band of pansies practicing right now?” Sue asked him, scowl deepening. Kurt shrugged. “Answer me when I talk to you, Ladyface!”

Kurt took out his phone. I don’t want to talk, Coach, he said. Not to you, not to anyone. He handed the phone to Sue knowing that he’d probably just committed suicide. He couldn’t really care. What on earth could Sue Sylvester do to him to make his life worse?

Sue stared down at the phone for a long time. Then, to Kurt’s surprise, the scowl faded from her face. She sighed and handed the phone back to him.

“Can’t blame you, I suppose,” she said. Kurt stared at her and she glared at him. “This doesn’t mean I like you,” she reminded him waspishly. “It’s just that your girly tear-filled face is giving me a feeling in my stomach that is the complete opposite of joy and I can’t stand it.”

Kurt smiled a little bit. He doubted anyone in Glee would believe him if he told them that Sue had actually had a moment of empathy. Not that he’d be telling them anytime soon.

“Listen, kid,” Sue said abruptly. “I know you’ve had a hard time of it the last few weeks, and even before that. I knew about most of it and I didn’t do anything about it because, to be honest, I didn’t really care. But you were one of my Cheerios - one of the best damn Cheerios I’ve had, in fact. You’re also one of the few people in this school that I can tolerate to talk to for more than a few moments. So I’d like to say, and mark this because Sue Sylvester doesn’t say it too often, that I’m sorry. And that from now on, you’re going to have a pair of eyes watching your back in the halls.”

Kurt stared at her, taken aback by the swift and sudden outpouring of honesty and, well . . . Niceness. Who knew that Sue Sylvester could actually be a decent human being? Kurt had suspected every once in a while that Sue wasn’t as mean as she led on - oh, he knew she had a bad side that could very, very bad, but she also had a few soft spots where her well-hidden niceness shone through. Her sister, for example. Or the few times that she’d helped Kurt or Quinn out. Or even her brief friendship with Schue, which had astounded all of them when they’d come back from break.

Thanks Coach, he typed out. That means a lot to me.

Sue eyed him for a moment, then sighed. “If you tell anyone that I momentarily lapsed from my normal abrasive self, I will see to it that no amount of make-up will fix your pretty face.”

The threat, however, sounded half-hearted. Sue’s scowl told him that she’d heard the lack of conviction as clearly as Kurt had, and she turned on her heel and disappeared with a huff. Kurt nearly smiled at her back.

-

Helen came in and out for the next week or so. Kurt never really saw much of her. He knew that she was getting ready to transfer her independent bookstore over to Lima - she’d decided it would be too much trouble to try and manage it while half a country away. She’d spoken to Kurt optimistically about it, but Kurt knew that she was carefully looking through what Burt had left them and storing it away in preparation that her store didn’t prosper.

Kurt avoided his friends, for the most part. Finn and Mercedes were the most persistent, but all of them tried to track him down during the weeks after his decision to quit Glee. He’d been trapped by Mike in the men’s room as he hurriedly assured Kurt that he had both Mike and Tina’s support and love, and wouldn’t he please come back to Glee, because Rachel was starting to terrify all of them and Kurt was really the only who could hold her in check. Or something.

Rachel tried to talk to him too, but Kurt managed to push her away after the first minute or so. His voice didn’t work, but his legs did. He’d run as soon as the words it’s so hard being in a club with someone who can’t hope to match my talent or drive, although Mercedes does try her best—left her mouth.

It wasn’t that he didn’t love his friends. He did appreciate all of them, even Puck and Rachel. But just the sight of them hurt. When he looked at Mercedes, all he could think of was how his dad had liked her, had told him once that he better not let that friendship die, because there was a girl who’d stand by him. When he looked at Rachel, all he could remember was the old singing and dancing lessons that his dad had carted him around to—Rachel had been in every one, and had been just as loud and irritating as a child as she was as a teenager. When he looked at Finn—well. It was almost too painful to look at Finn and see everything that his dad had wanted in a son and know that he’d never gotten it, that instead he’d been given a son who preferred watching musicals to family dinners.

And a part of him realized that it was something more than that even. He’d lost too many people. Kurt hated how he loved people and they ended up leaving him, either from death or—Well, Finn was one example. He always loved so much and they all ended up going away, one way or another. He was tired of it. It was easier, so much easier, to just turn away from all the people he loved, to spare himself the heartache.

So he avoided his friends. Where before he used to eat lunch surrounded by friends, he now ate alone in an abandoned classroom. He ignored their attempts to coerce him into a conversation during study hall or class, stayed away from them after school and didn’t answer their texts or calls. Kurt told Helen to turn them away if they came to the door, and with one look at his face, Helen had agreed.

Slowly but surely, they drifted apart. Mercedes sent him sad looks across classroom, Finn looked confused whenever they crossed paths, and Rachel was still trying to lure him back to Glee, but the rest of them, one by one, began texting and cajoling less. It made Kurt feel vindicated, in a way. If they really cared, they’d never give up, he reasoned, ignoring the stab of hurt. He’d never really been a part of the group anyways - he’d always been on the outside looking in, even when it came to Glee. So was it really a surprise that they’d dropped him so easily? That they could continue on without him without much of a change to their group dynamic?

Still, even estranged as he was, McKinley thrived on gossip, so Kurt managed to keep up with what was going on, no matter how hard he tried not to hear.

Glee recruited Lauren Zizes the second week after Kurt left. Kurt approved - he liked Lauren, even if her obsession with Twilight boggled his brain and she was almost too brusque for his tastes, but she had a sort of confidence around her that Kurt couldn’t help but admire. He thought she’d be good for Glee. She’d keep Rachel in her place, at least, and Santana too.

He’d known the Sectionals date since the first day of school, and it felt odd attending class while the Glee club was performing. He heard when they came back that they’d beaten their opponents, which, thankfully, hadn’t included Vocal Adrenaline. Kurt was a little relieved.
The months passed and Kurt watched as couples came and went. Lauren and Puck’s relationship was a surprise and a pleasure for Kurt—who knew Puck could look underneath the surface of someone he wanted to date?—although Rachel and Finn’s breakup wasn’t. The same went for Finn and Quinn’s new relationship. Kurt couldn’t help but wonder what on earth Finn was doing, but then that went back up the alley of caring, so he made himself stop thinking about it.

They lost at Regionals.

Kurt watched as his old friends slunk through class, all of their eyes red-rimmed and miserable. Part of him wanted to go up to them and say how sorry he was, how he wished he’d stayed with them through it all, how much he wanted them to feel better. But another part, a bigger part, was glad that he’d gotten away.

To everyone’s surprise, the Glee club was allowed another year. Figgins, however, was heard sternly telling Schue that Glee needed to place at Nationals next year or they really would be disbanded. Kurt was 60% sure he wasn’t bluffing.

-

“Did you hear?” someone whispered in study hall. Kurt didn’t look up, his head buried in his English book. The girl was whispering to one of her friends. He caught a flash of red in the corner of his eye - red skirt. Cheerio, he thought. “Coach Sylvester’s sister died yesterday night.”

Kurt froze. His hands tightened on his book until his knuckles looked about ready to slice through his skin. Her sister, Kurt thought. Sue had only mentioned her sister once or twice to Kurt. She was handicapped, Kurt knew, and older than Sue, but beyond that he knew little. But Sue loved her. Kurt had been able to see that. And to know that she’d died—

Kurt stood. His teacher, buried in his laptop, didn’t even notice when Kurt walked out.

The hallways were deserted except for a few couples making out. Kurt ignored them. He had a hunch Sue would be in her office, and sure enough, as he approached he was able to see her shape through the window. She was facing away from the door, looking out the window.

Kurt hesitated before knocking on the door. He remembered, with sudden, vivid clarity, how little he’d wanted to be around people when his father had died. How little he’d wanted to hear the sorry’s, the it’ll get better’s, the what a horrible loss’s. Surely Sue wouldn’t appreciate him barging in at such a vulnerable time.

Sue’s face, dark and withdrawn as she talked about her sister being mistreated, flashed in Kurt’s face. He pushed the door open.

Sue wasn’t crying. She had purple bruises under her eyes, and there was an unopened bottle of alcohol on her desk. She looked up when Kurt came in and her eyes narrowed.

“Spare me,” she snapped. “I know why you’re here, Ladyface, and trust me there is nothing on this great Earth that I want less than to share sob stories with you.”

Kurt huffed silently and slid into the chair opposite hers. He gave her a long look, barely daring to blink. Sue stared back at him, then turned away.

“Fine,” she muttered under her breath. “Obviously you’ve lost your hearing as well as your voice.”

Kurt raised an eyebrow, silently mocking her inability to truly insult him. Sue ignored him. Sighing, Kurt sat back in his chair and waited. He would wait as long as he needed to, although he didn’t know what he was waiting for. The thought of Sue breaking down or crying was incomprehensible to him. Sue Sylvester didn’t cry. She never broke.

“Jean was asking for me,” Sue said suddenly. Kurt perked up. Sue didn’t look at him though - she kept staring out the window. “That’s what the nurses told me. She was saying my name in her sleep. Calling out to me as she died.”

Kurt bit his lip. He opened his mouth, almost ready to speak, but the words got stuck in between. Instead, he pulled out a piece of paper. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he wrote, I got into a fight with my dad before he passed away. Passed away was such a pretty term for death, Kurt mused, passing the paper over to Sue. But writing the words died on that paper was still too raw, even now.

Sue looked down when she heard the paper scrape across the desk. She read it and her eyebrows lifted. Finally she looked over at Kurt.

“What about?” she asked listlessly. She didn’t really care, Kurt knew. But it was a way to distract her.

We used to have family dinners, he wrote. Every Friday. I wanted to skip one to go see a musical and he didn’t want me to. I put music before my father, Kurt almost added. I didn’t ever get to say I was sorry, that I didn’t mean it, that I loved him more than I could ever love singing, ever love anything else. That he was sacred to me, that he was everything to me. But he couldn’t write the words any more than he could speak them. They were stuck in Kurt’s chest permanently, beating to get out but caged inside forever.

“I love my sister,” Sue said. There was a catch in her voice. “She was a . . . good person. She shouldn’t died.” Why did she have to die? Her expression said.

It doesn’t matter if they’re good or not, Kurt wrote, remembering his father’s gentle hands, the way he’d said, if that’s who you are there’s nothing I can do to change it and I love you just as much--

Sue smiled humorlessly. “They all die in the end anyway, huh? And usually they die before the rest of us.”

Kurt stared at her, then wrote across his page slowly, I’m sorry.

Sue snorted. “Silly thing to be unless you stopped my sister from breathing yourself. Did you give her pneumonia?”

Kurt just gave her a long, steady look. It’s not about being guilty, he wrote. It’s about empathy. I’m saying that I’m sorry you’re in pain, and that even if that pain wasn’t caused by me, I can still be sorry that it’s there and that you have to experience it.

Sue stared down at his words for a long time. Finally, her lip quirked. “Suddenly the expert, huh Hummel?”

Kurt shrugged. He’d had a lot of time to think and a lot of I’m sorry’s to deal with.

“Don’t take this as kindness, but . . . Thank you, Ladyface.” Sue held out a hand. For a moment, all Kurt could do was stare at it. Then, slowly, he took it in his own. Sue gave it a firm shake, then dropped it hastily. “Now get out of my office. Go decorate or color-coordinate your wardrobe, or whatever it is you do.”

Kurt smiled what felt like his first real smile in months as he left.

-

Secondhand Storytelling, the sign read. Underneath was, We sell used books, great coffee and free entertainment!

Blaine sighed. It probably wasn’t what his father would’ve chosen for him. Edmund Anderson had already tried to force him into one of his numerous law firms as an intern or a secretary. Blaine had used his gigs at various theme parks as an excuse to get out of them. Not that it worked very well. His father always gave him the side-eye and muttered things under his breath like, “I thought he was growing out of those.” Blaine had heard him arguing with Blaine’s mother, Celese, about Blaine’s future.

“The boy has delusions of grandeur!” his father had said. “He thinks he’s going to go out into the world and become some sort of—superstar! It’s time we show him reality, and the reality is that he’ll become a lawyer like me and his grandfather and his great-grandfather.”

Blaine had started job-hunting the day after that conversation. He delibrately stayed away from places like theme parks, which his father viewed with disdain. Instead he tried coffee shops, bookstores, anything small and local. His father would him to be part of a law firm or an accounting agency or something, but Blaine could at least use the excuse that whatever job he got would work until he went to college. And then . . . . Well, he’d figure out something.

Secondhand Storytelling had recently opened up in Lima. Blaine was staying with his grandparents over the summer in a nearby town, which made Lima the next best option. Out of all of the stores there, most of them fast food or small restaurants, Secondhand Storytelling looked like one of the best options for Blaine. It was a family owned business, and it had only recently transferred from it’s original location of California, from what Blaine had read on its website.

Blaine smiled when he heard a bell ringing over his head as he entered - he liked how old fashioned that felt, having a bell instead of a beep or the cool rush of automatic doors, silent and swift. Inside, it was just as quaint - books lined the walls, all wooden and richly brown, and were also piled in stacks on the floor. The majority of them looked worn and well-loved. There were signs hanging from the ceiling, dividing up the genres.

Near the entrance was the entry to an attached coffee shop called Java Junky, although it was currently deserted. It was tiny, with only a few tables, and there was a bored looking cashier with dreadlocks at the register. Near the coffee shop was a medium sized area that, to Blaine’s surprise and interest, housed a microphone set-up, a small, upright piano and a guitar. He wondered if that was where the live entertainment bit of the sign was played.

He wandered for a little bit. For the most part, Secondhand Storytelling seemed empty - there was a little old lady browsing the cookbooks and a middle-aged man reading through the non-fiction titles, but otherwise it was eerily quiet. Having seen enough of the store to decide that he liked it, Blaine made his way to the check-out, hoping to find an employee or even the manager to talk to.

The counter, however, was empty. Blaine frowned at it. He looked around and paused when he noticed a cat sitting nearby, watching him with cool blue eyes. It was a calico, darkly colored, and it’s face was full of the cool disdain Blaine had always received from cats. As Blaine looked down at it, it began licking its paw, shoving how little Blaine concerned it in his face. Blaine chuckled.

A head popped up from below the check-out counter.

Blaine jumped, yelping a little. “Holy shit,” he breathed, trying to stop his heart from beating so fast.

A body followed the head, and a boy about his own age stood in front of Blaine. He was tall and thin, and his dark hair fell into eyes that were very bright and blue. He had an eyebrow raised, and he looked almost disdainful as the cat, which had hopped on the counter and started purring as soon as the boy appeared.

“Hi,” Blaine said. “I’m, um, Blaine Anderson.” The boy said nothing, just continued to look at Blaine. “I was wondering if there were any applications I could get? For a job here?”

The boy continued to eye him. Then he shrugged. He pulled out a pad of paper and scribbled something down, pushing the pad over to Blaine.

My name’s Kurt, the pad said. Come with me, I’ll introduce you to Helen.

Blaine could only stare blankly at the letters for a minute. Then he looked up at Kurt. His face had hardened, and he looked like he was waiting for some sort of comment from Blaine about—well. Not being able to talk, it looked like, or being deaf-mute, or both. Blaine remembered the ugly stares he’d gotten at his old school after he’d come out, how it hurt to have people look at you strangely because you were different, and he smiled instead. Kurt blinked, looking surprised, then smiled a little back. He made a gesture to follow him and Blaine trotted after Kurt as Kurt led him through various bookshelves.

I wonder how he got the job, Blaine thought, watching Kurt’s back. Not many places were willing to hire someone that couldn’t talk. I wonder if he’s deaf too? He’d met a few deaf people, and one of them had been able to read lips pretty easily. Maybe that’s what Kurt did too.

They stopped in the back, in front of a short, dark-haired woman who looked like she smiled easily and often. She was putting boxes away, but she stopped when she saw Kurt and Blaine.

“Kurt?” she asked. “Who’s this?”

“I’m Blaine,” Blaine answered before Kurt could say anything. Or write anything, as it were. “I’m here to apply for a job?”

Her eye’s crinkled at the corner. “Helen Hummel, the owner,” she said, holding out a hand for Blaine to shake. Blaine did so quickly, a little stunned that he was in a meeting with the owner, of all people. He looked over at Kurt, wondering why he hadn’t warned Blaine. “Kurt here is my nephew,” she added. Blaine blinked. Explains how he got the job, I guess, he thought.

“Are there any openings?” Blaine asked quietly, trying not to sound too eager.

“Yes, actually,” Helen said thoughtfully. “We recently had to let an employee go due to . . . Attitude problems,” she shot Kurt a look at that and Blaine had an idea of what the attitude problems had been about, “and we haven’t been able to find anyone since.” She looked Blaine up and down. “Ever had a job before, kid?”

He shrugged. “I’ve sung at a few theme parks,” he said.

To his surprise, Helen tensed and shot a look at Kurt as she asked, attempting to be casual, “Sing much, do you?”

Blaine frowned. “I’m in my school’s Glee club,” he said. “I like performing.” Like was an understatement, but Helen and Kurt didn’t need to know that.

Before Helen could say anything, Kurt signed something out with his hands. Blaine, whose sign language was pretty much limited to thank you and turtle, couldn’t make out a word of it, but Helen seemed to understand. She sighed and, glancing at Blaine, signed something back. Kurt nodded sharply.

“Look, Blaine, the thing is that we don’t really need anyone to man the books or the register - Kurt does most of the work on his own alright, and I have a few kids doing part-time when they can.” Blaine’s face fell. “But,” Helen continued, and Blaine straightened up hopefully, “what we have been looking for is a part-time entertainer. Back in California, there were people lining up to get gigs in my shop, but Ohio has a more limited supply of singers and poets. Mostly all you’d have to do is sit up at our little music area - the one by the door, did you see it? - And play whatever you want.”

Blaine stared at her. “Really?” he asked. “You’d pay me to do that?”

It was like his dream job, except that involved actually singing original music and making his own albums. But still. Even at theme parks they gave you a setlist, and Blaine knew that the Warblers tended to stick with top 40 hits that they could turn a capella. Blaine managed to convince them to do other things every once in a while because he was their star, but as often as he liked.

Helen laughed. “Trust me, you’d be doing me a favor, kid. I’ve had live music in this shop since I started it, and it feels wrong promising free entertainment on my sign when we don’t have any entertainment.”

Blaine eyed her skeptically. “You’d really hire me?” he asked. “Just like that?”

“Well, I want some assurance that you can hold your own musically,” Helen said wryly. “We can do that in a moment - usually we die around now, so we should have a moment or two. And I’ll probably expect you to help Kurt out whenever he needs it. How avaliable will you be?”

Blaine shrugged. “My only plan this summer was for a job,” he admitted. “My family likes to go on vacation for a week or two in August, and I’ll have school in September . . . .”

Helen waved a hand. “It’s barely June, we’ll figure it out when we get there. Kurt can you go ring Ms. Logans up? I think she’s ringing the bell. And show Blaine how the register works while you’re at it.”

Kurt nodded and strode off, leaving Blaine to hurry after him. Ms. Logans was indeed at the counter, a book clasped tightly in her hands. It was a barely-used copy of a Danielle Steele novel and Ms. Logans looked pleased to have found it.

“How are you today, sweetheart?” Ms. Logans asked Kurt as she handed the book over to him.
Kurt shrugged, making a so-so gesture with his hand as he scanned the book through. He gave Blaine a look that silently said, pay attention and Blaine watched as Kurt rang Ms. Logans through, bagged her book up and printed off her receipt.

All the while, Ms. Logans chatted away at Blaine, talking about her dead husband, her cats, and her love of Danielle Steele. Blaine tried to listen, but he lost track around the third cat. Whenever he looked at Kurt, he looked amused, and Blaine guessed that Ms. Logans must have relayed all of this information to Kurt at one point or another. He wondered if she did it to every new person she met.

When Ms. Logans finally left, the bell announcing her departure, Helen popped her head out. “She finally gone?” she asked, looking a little sheepish. Kurt smiled and nodded, and Helen emerged fully. “Alright, kid, let’s see what you’re made of.”

She led Blaine to the small music area that he’d seen earlier. He saw that there was an old guitar leaning against the piano, as well as a tambourine on the floor next to it. Sheet music was in piles on the floor. Blaine lifted up the piano cover, hitting a note curiously. It rang out clearly and he guessed that Helen must have it tuned regularly.

“Go ahead and sing something, Blaine,” Helen said, stepping. “However long you want.”

Blaine frowned. He was used to preparing for auditions, and he’d come to the shop today without even knowing he’d have one. A song, he thought, fighting a rising panic. I need a song to sing. He tried to think, but all that came immediately to mind was The Imperial March or the Fairly Oddparents theme song. He bit his lip and glanced over at Kurt, who was watching him with a raised eyebrow. The eyebrow seemed a little like a challenge, Blaine realized. Can you or can’t you? It asked. How good are you really?

Blaine sat down at the piano, his panic fading. He took a deep breath in.

“I’m out on my own again
Face down in the porcelain
Feeling so high but looking so low
Party favors on the floor
Group of girls banging on the door
So many new fair-weather friends.”
Blaine paused, then breathed out, “Ohhh . . . .”

“Have you ever been so lost
Known the way and still so lost . . . .”

Blaine turned a little and, almost inadvertently, he caught Kurt’s eye. Kurt was watching him intently, his eyes wide and thoughtful. Blaine almost smiled, but fought back the instinct. This wasn’t a song for smiling.

Deciding to keep it short, he skipped the second verse entirely, and instead moved onto the bridge.

“Is there a light
Is there a light
At the end of the road
I'm pushing everyone away
'Cause I can't feel this anymore
Can't feel this anymore . . . .”

Blaine’s voice built with the music, and then softened suddenly as he came back to the final chorus.

“Have you ever been so lost
Known the way and still so lost
Another night waiting for someone to take me home
Have you ever been so lost
Have you ever been so lost?”

He played a few extra bars and then finished with a sparse chord. He breathed out steadily. Performing, even with more withdrawn songs, was an adrenalin rush for Blaine. It made his heart thump and his blood thrum. He turned to look at Helen and Kurt.

Helen was grinning brightly, and as soon as Blaine looked over she started clapping. Kurt joined in with her more softly, but there was a bright look in his eyes that told Blaine that Kurt had enjoyed it as much as his aunt had. A warm feeling was rising in his chest, and Blaine flushed. It wasn’t wrong to be happy that a very good-looking boy had enjoyed his performance. Still, he shifted his gaze back to Helen and tried to squash the happiness.

“Well, you’re hired, obviously,” Helen said, still beaming. “When can you start?”

-

“So what’d you think of him?” Helen asked the moment Blaine left.

Kurt shrugged. He’s alright, he motioned. It was an understatement, and from the look in Helen’s face, she knew that too. But Kurt wouldn’t confess that he found Blaine—interesting. Intriguing. Maybe even a little intoxicating.

Kurt knew about four people that could sing like Blaine - Rachel, Mercedes, Jesse St. James and—well, Kurt himself, when he still sang. It wasn’t, Kurt mused, about vocal ability. Or likability, for that matter. It was—giving yourself over to a performance, so deeply and ardently that you lost yourself in it. It was, as cheesy as it sounded, giving yourself up to the music, the performance, the lyrics. It was about never holding back, not for one second, and it didn’t matter whether it was charisma or vocal talent or sheer emotion that you were projecting, as long as you were doing it as loudly as you could. It was theatricality, at its finest. And Blaine had it in spades.

It made Kurt, for one impossible second, want to sing again. And, more importantly, to sing with one specific boy.

-

Blaine learned a few things over his first week at Secondhand Storytelling.

One, there was more than one cat prowling around the store. They all belonged to Helen, and they lived at the store. The one Blaine had met when he’d come in was called Lucifer (“He’s hell to live with sometimes,” Helen had said with a shrug when Blaine had given her a look) and he watched Blaine out of the corner of its eye whenever he came into the room with disdain. In fact, Lucifer seemed to view most of the world with disdain.

Calvin, a huge, dark orange tabby, was the friendliest of the bunch. Too friendly almost. He liked everyone who came in the shop and spent his time winding around their ankles. He meowed constantly and gave nose kisses. If anyone started petting him and tried to stop, they found themselves burdened with a very determined cat stalker.

The final cat was completely dark, and his eyes were such a deep blue that they looked black in most lights. He hated every human, as far as Blaine could tell, and if cats could scowl, he would be scowling constantly. The only person who could touch him for longer than a few seconds without getting a hiss and a claw to the face was Kurt. Aptly, he was named Severus Snape. Blaine could see the resemblance.

Two, he really could play anything he wanted. While the little old grandmas that came in every day gave him looks whenever his song choices got too racy for their choice (they considered Hairspray racy though, so Blaine tried to ignore them) most people didn’t really pay that much attention to him. Every once in a while when girls his age came in, they stared at him for an unsettlingly long time then gave him their numbers, but otherwise he was invisible. It was nice. It meant that the first time Blaine missed a chord or a note or sang a little off-key he didn’t really have to worry because no one was listening.

Except, apparently, for Kurt, who was number three all by himself.

Blaine didn’t really understand Kurt. He wasn’t deaf—Blaine had figured that out his first day, when Kurt had turned when someone was calling his name. But he never spoke. He wrote out his conversations on a pad of paper or occasionally on his phone. But he never made a sound. Blaine wanted to ask why, but he didn’t think Helen or Kurt would appreciate his nosiness. Still, his curiosity nagged.

Also, there was the watching thing.

Blaine wasn’t sure if Kurt was doing it intentionally or not, but every once in a while throughout the day, he’d feel the hairs on his neck standing up. He’d look up, and Kurt would be nearby, staring. He aways looked away quickly whenever Blaine met his eyes, a blush rising high on his cheekbones. Blaine supposed that Kurt must be shy or anti-social and unused to being around new people. Either that or he found Blaine interesting, an option that Blaine considered with, when he looked back on it, a little too much interest. It wasn’t like he knew Kurt was bi or gay. For all he knew, Kurt was the straightest of straight men and Blaine was just reading into the situation what he wanted to. Which—he did want to. Kurt was beautiful, in a very elegant and composed way, and Blaine wouldn’t be opposed to getting to know him a little better. And there was something—intriguing about him.

Kurt read a lot, as far as Blaine could tell. He always had a book when he was at the register, and he often read while putting things away. Blaine never got close enough to see the titles, but they looked like they ranged from science fiction to nonfiction, with everything in between. The customers all seemed to love him, especially the little old grandmas, but Blaine never saw any friends of his come to visit him. He lived with Helen, but neither of them mentioned what had happened to his parents.

Blaine had thought about asking Helen about him, or one of the other part-time workers. But every time the thought came to him, he pushed it away. There was something—crude about asking straight out. Still, the curiosity nagged at him, an itch he wouldn’t allow himself to scratch.

-

“Here, kitty, kitty . . . Here kitty . . . “

Snape gave him what Blaine could only call the most unimpressed of unimpressed looks that a cat could give. Blaine sighed, leaning back on his heels.

He liked cats. Always had. His dad had tried to force a dog on him when he was younger, but after the puppy stage they just hadn’t gotten along very well, and Collins had always been more attached to his mother anyways. Along with liking cats, Blaine had always flattered himself by thinking that he had a way with them. Strays never bit him, housecats always purred loudly under his hands, and he’d never had a bad cat experience, unlike David, who had told the Warblers in detail about his step-mother’s demon cat that bit anything that moved. David had come back after visiting his father with bites all over his ankles and hands.

But there was at least one cat immune to Blaine Anderson’s charm, and that was Severus Snape.

Of course, Snape was immune to everyone’s charm. Snape, as far as Blaine could see, hated every single human he came across. Much like the character he was named after.

“C’mon, kitty, I just wanna pet you,” Blaine murmured, trying to reach forward again. Snape backed away, his ears flat to his head, black eyes spitting fire at Blaine.

Blaine frowned. There was a tap on his shoulder, and he looked up to see Kurt staring down at him, mouth quirked with a smile.

“I don’t know why he doesn’t like me,” Blaine said mournfully.

Kurt’s smile deepened and he made a gesture. Watch me, was what he meant, as far as Blaine could tell. He watched closely and Kurt kneeled down next to him (still taller, to Blaine’s disgruntlement) and held out a hand to Snape. He waited patiently for Snape to stop growling, never moving or encouraging Snape to come closer. Eventually, Snape’s ears perked up and his expression settled into something like a cat-like curiosity. Blaine held his breath as Snape moved forward and sniffed Kurt’s hand before, of all things, purring loudly and shoving his face at Kurt’s fingers.

“What,” Blaine said flatly, watching as Kurt picked Snape up and cradled him close. Snape looked like he was having the time of his life. “I don’t understand,” he said when Kurt shot him a look.

Kurt sighed, then turned towards the register, gesturing for Blaine to follow. Blaine did, watching as Snape’s eyes closed happily as Kurt scratched him under his chin. He looked like any normal cat.

Kurt scribbled something hastily onto his notepad and shoved at Blaine, still petting Snape.

He was abused at his old owner’s home, it said. Helen rescued him. He doesn’t like people who try and push themselves on him. If you wait long enough and stay still enough, then he’ll come to you, and that’s the way he likes it. Also, he doesn’t like to be referred to as kitty, or talked to in a baby voice, so that probably didn’t help your chances.

Blaine looked up at Kurt, who was smiling slightly at Snape’s purring. He wondered if Helen had informed Kurt how to deal with Snape - but no, Snape didn’t like Helen much either. He tolerated her more than other people, Blaine supposed, but he guessed that was because she rescued him. But he’d never seen Helen touch Snape before. Blaine wondered how long it took Kurt to realize that all it took was some patience to deal with Snape. Warmth was creeping up on him. Kurt hadn’t had any obligation to deal with Snape. He easily could’ve just ignored the cat’s moodiness. But instead, he’d taken the time to learn about Snape and learn about the best way to help him and get close to him.

Blaine had to bit his lip so he didn’t say something embarrassing. “You’re a wonderful person,” he wanted to tell Kurt so badly, because he was. Blaine had seen him get books for ladies in wheelchairs without being asked, had seen him taking boxes for his aunt when it was obvious they were too heavy for her, had seen him staying late to close even when his shift had ended two hours earlier. Kurt was—well, wonderful. In quite a few ways. Blaine wanted to tell him, but he wasn’t sure how Kurt would take it. Instead, he held out his hand to Snape and, instead of waving it under his nose or cooing at him in a baby voice, he simply waited.

Kurt, seeing Blaine’s action, froze and then, slowly, he pulled his hand away from Snape’s head. Snape meowed loudly at the loss until he realized Kurt wasn’t going to keep petting him. Then, with a very cattish sigh, he turned and saw Blaine’s hand. He froze, his ears going back and his eyes narrowing. When Blaine didn’t move or say anything, Snape’s ears perked up again and he stared at Blaine’s hand curiously. Cautiously, he took a step forward and touched his nose to Blaine’s finger. Blaine smiled, but didn’t move his hand. Snape inched forward until his head was underneath Blaine’s palm. Blaine could feel his ears trembling a little bit. Slowly and carefully, he petted Snape’s head. Snape was tense for a moment, then relaxed under Blaine’s touch. Blaine couldn’t stop his smile from widening in triumph.

He looked over at Kurt and stopped short when he saw the look on his face. He was regarding Blaine with a mixture of amusement and intense gratitude and affection and Blaine’s throat closed up at the sight of it. He felt Snape butting his head against his hand and realized with a start that he had stopped petting the cat. Slowly, he started up again. Kurt’s expression had masked itself when he realized that Blaine had seen it, settling into something that more resembled the iciness Kurt wore like a shield, but Blaine couldn’t forget the memory of Kurt’s eyes shining with amusement and affection. There was nothing, Blaine realized slowly, that he wanted more than to have Kurt look at him like that all the time.

Crap, he thought, still petting Snape’s head. I’m in so much trouble.

-

Blaine sighed as the door of Secondhand Storytelling closed behind him. He’d just finished his last shift and he was more than ready to go home - a few pre-teen girls had come into the shop earlier and requested as much Hannah Montana and Justin Beiber as they could. Blaine didn’t hate either of them, per se, but their music grated on his ears and he honestly wondered why so many people could be obsessed with them. More than that, the girls’ love-struck looks as he’d played had gotten increasingly irritating. Blaine was aware that females tended to like him despite his sexuality, but having girls who weren’t even in high school yet shooting him flirty looks was disconcerting and, if he was honest, a little creepy. And, if he was honest, a little cute, in that obsessive pre-teen girl way.

Blaine turned a corner into the abandoned alley behind Secondhand Storytelling, intent on getting to his car as quickly as possible, and stopped short. Kurt was sitting on the curb behind the bookshop, his head buried in his hands.

Blaine stared at him for a long time, wondering what he should do. Part of him, the part that realized that Kurt would probably be horrified to be seen, wanted to turn back and come around again when Kurt was back inside. Yet another part of him, an admittedly bigger part, wanted to go over and see if Kurt was okay, and if there was anything Blaine could do to help.

Kurt’s shoulders were shaking. Blaine hesitated for a brief moment, and then moved forward.

“Kurt?” he said quietly as he approached.

Kurt froze. Then, slowly, he lifted his head. His face was tear-stained, and his eyes were very bright. Color sat high in his cheeks, although Blaine couldn’t tell if it was from the crying or from embarrassment at being caught doing it.

“Are you alright?” Blaine asked, then shook his head. “Sorry, I know you’re not.” Some of the color left Kurt’s face when Blaine said that, and he even looked a tiny bit amused. Blaine counted that as a victory. “Is there anything I can do? Do you need something to—Here, hang on—“

He searched his pockets and triumphantly held up a slightly crumpled handkerchief that had his initials in the corner. He held it out to Kurt. Kurt stared at it for a long moment, then looked up at Blaine, his eyes wary. Blaine felt as though he was confronting a cornered, hurt animal and held still. Kurt, apparently finding whatever it was he was searching for in Blaine’s face, took Blaine’s handkerchief. Delicately, he dabbed at his face with it.

“You don’t have to be careful with it,” Blaine said, watching Kurt’s efforts to keep from dirtying the handkerchief too much with amusement. “I have a bunch of them at home. My grandparents are old-fashioned - my grandfather doesn’t let me leave the house unless I have one in my pocket. He says that I never know when I’ll need to comfort crying girls. Or crying boys, as the case may be,” he added, smiling a bit.

Kurt was eyeing him as if he wasn’t sure what planet Blaine was from. However, he did use the handkerchief more securely, and he managed to clear most of the tear-stains from his face. He made to hand the handkerchief back to Blaine after he was done, but Blaine waved him away.

“Keep it,” he said. “I don’t need it anyways.”

Kurt looked from Blaine to the handkerchief, then nodded slowly. He tucked it away in his pocket. Then, still hesitant, he made a sign. Blaine recognized it after a moment - it meant thank you.

“No problem,” he said. He hesitated, then added, “Kurt, I know we don’t know each other very well, but if you ever need anything from me, you can ask. If I can help you, I will. And . . .” Blaine couldn’t help wondering if he was going too far, but he thought it needed to be said, “You seem like you need someone to talk to, I guess.”

Kurt’s face closed up so tightly that it made Blaine wonder if he was talking to the same person anymore. Kurt unfolded himself and stood, every movement graceful and infinitely icy. Without another look or gesture, Kurt swept past Blaine, who was still half-kneeling, and back into the store. Blaine sighed and stood, looking over his shoulder where Kurt had disappeared.

“That could’ve gone better,” he murmured quietly. Then, with a shrug, he turned back to make his way to his car.

-

Blaine sighed, tinkering on the piano softly. Secondhand Storytelling had been slowly emptying for the last hour and there were only a few people left browsing the shelves. At the register, Kurt was slowly turning the pages of his new book, something by Isaac Asimov. It wasn’t, Blaine reflected as he played random chords, the kind of reading material he would’ve thought Kurt would like. But then again, he didn’t know Kurt very well.

His hands shifted and he started playing the opening chords to the song. One of the nearby customers, a middle-aged woman, shifted and turned to watch him. Blaine ignored her and continued to play. He tilted his head, frowning at the keys. Something didn’t sound quite right. He played the chord again, changing a finger or two, and his frown deepened. No, that’s not it, he thought. He switched his hands again, and still, the sound jarred him. Not that either then. He lifted his hands from the piano entirely, frowning at the keys. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the customer huffing and returning to her browsing.

A post-it slid into his field of vision, across the top of the piano. He looked up to see Kurt looking down at him, an eyebrow raised. Blaine blinked up at him and then down at the post-it note.
It’s B flat, not B major, the note said.

He blinked at it for several long moments, then looked back up at Kurt. Kurt, however, had already turned his back and made his way back to the register, where he was re-opening his book. Blaine stared at him long enough that he saw the tips of Kurt’s ears begin to flush red from embarrassment. Blaine smiled slowly and turned back to the piano. He played the B-flat chord and his smile widened when it sounded just as it was supposed to. Quietly, he began to play and, without looking at Kurt, started to sing:

“Edelweiss, Edelweiss
Every morning you greet me
Small and white clean and bright
You look happy to meet me
Blossom of snow may you bloom and grow
Bloom and grow forever.
Edelweiss, Edelweiss
Bless my homeland forever.”

Kurt stared down at his book, not seeing the words. He’d known what song Blaine was trying to play the moment he heard the first few chords, but it still struck him to actually hear it being sung. His mother had loved that song. When Kurt had been sick or unhappy, she’d popped their worn VHS of The Sound of Music. They sang every song together once Kurt was old enough to remember the lyrics. After she’d died, Kurt had refused to watch the movie until the first Christmas after her death, when his dad had sat him down and popped it in. Burt couldn’t sing very well and he was horrible at remembering the lyrics, but he did his best. Kurt, after about half of the movie, had relutantly joined in. He remembered crying afterwards, and the way his dad had held him close, muttering comforts into his hair.

Kurt could feel tears burning behind his eyes.

“Small and white clean and bright
You look happy to meet me
Blossom of snow may you bloom and grow
Bloom and grow forever
Edelweiss, Edelweiss
Bless my homeland forever.”

Kurt looked up and met Blaine’s eyes as he trailed off, just fingering the chords instead of singing along with them. Blaine was bad for him, Kurt thought. He walked around with his good looks and kind eyes and talk of friendship and companionship. How could Kurt resist that kind of temptation? He wanted the friendship that Blaine offered with his words, his actions, his eyes. Blaine managed to sneak his way past barriers that had worked on his closest friends and his aunt.

Kurt shook his head and turned back to his book, ignoring Blaine’s stare as best as he could. He was in so much trouble.

-

“So do you only play love songs or what?”

Blaine jumped and turned swiftly on his heel. The boy who’d spoken was tall and bulky in an almost intimidating way. He was tan and dark-eyed and he had, of all things, a mohawk. He was also, Blaine noticed, wearing a McKinley jersey.

“Did you have something specific in mind?” he asked, careful to keep his tone even and polite.
The boy snorted. “Rock-n-roll, man!” he exclaimed. “Something more than all that fruity lovey-dovey shit, you know? I can get that you want to woo the chicks or whatever, but there’s only so much of it I can take.”

“I’m gay,” Blaine told him, “so I’m not trying to woo any chicks, as you put it.”

The boy rolled his eyes. “Should’ve guessed,” he said. Blaine blinked. Judging by appearances is a bad thing, he reminded himself. He would’ve expected the boy to run away screaming when Blaine announced his sexuality. He looked like the type. “Name’s Puck, by the way,” the boy - Puck, Blaine guessed - added. Appropriate, Blaine thought, lip quirking.

“Blaine,” he said. “Nice to meet you, Puck. Did you have a specific request for me?”

Puck eyed him. “Nirvana?” he asked. “Queen? Journey?” He smirked, adding smugly, “Recognize any of those names?” Blaine clearly was expected to be clueless about all of them.

Blaine almost wanted to tell Puck about the Queen phase he went through when he was thirteen and the soft spot he still had for them. Instead, he raised an eyebrow in challenge and picked up the nearest guitar. He started strumming softly and looked straight at Puck as he sang:

“I can dim the lights and sing you songs full of sad things
We can do the tango just for two
I can serenade and gently play on your heart strings
Be your valentino just for you.”

Puck was staring at him, Blaine noticed with amusement, and he wondered if Puck just assumed that any gay boy wouldn’t know old rock music. Blaine’s smile widened and he darted a look over at the register. Kurt was sitting there, engrossed by a book. As if feeling Blaine’s gaze on him, he looked up and their eyes met. Kurt blinked at him in surprise.

“Ooh love - ooh loverboy
What're you doin' tonight, hey boy
Set my alarm, turn on my charm
That's because I'm a good old-fashioned lover boy.

When I'm not with you
I think of you always
I miss those long hot summer nights
I miss you
When I'm not with you
Think of me always
Love you - love you.”

Kurt was staring at him, but there was an amused look in his eye and Blaine grinned, hamming it up as much as he could. He liked getting smiles out of Kurt - it didn’t happen often enough. He glanced back over at Puck. His shock had faded and he appeared, to Blaine’s amusement, to be strumming along on an invisible guitar. Blaine almost missed his chord, but he managed to stifle his laughter to keep going. To keep himself from stumbling again, he looked back over at Kurt, whose expression had softened into something that looked very much like affection. A warm feeling swept through Blaine’s body. He tried to squash it, but he had a feeling his face gave him away, for Kurt’s eyes had widened with surprise again.r32;
“Hey boy where do you get it from
Hey boy where did you go?
I learned my passion in the good old
Fashioned school of loverboys

Ooh love, (There he goes again just like a good old-fashioned lover boy)
Ooh loverboy
What're you doin' tonight, hey boy
Everything's all right
Just hold on tight
That's because I'm a good old-fashioned fashioned lover boy.”

Blaine finished with a flourish, his eyes still on Kurt, whose surprise had melted into a mixture of thoughtfulness and amusement. He was smiling, but his eyes were narrow and searching. Blaine swallowed heavily before his attention was distracted as Puck started clapping.

“That was great! Still fruity, but at least it’s Queen’s brand of fruitnesss, so it makes it a little better,” Puck said, grinning. “You need to teach me those chord progressions, dude. I’ve never learned to play that song, but,” he lowered his voice, leaning forward, “my girlfriend loves Queen, you know, and that one is probably a better idea that Fat-Bottomed Girls.” His eyes widened, and his voice lowered further. “She’s the one who sent me in here, you know? She wanted me to get her this.” He waved a book under Blaine’s nose, and Blaine had to stifle laughter when he saw that it was entitled The Whole Lesbian Sex Book. “I don’t know why she wants it, but I’m hoping for the best, you know? That’s why I was thinking, if I could serenade her, maybe she’d be more willing to spice things up a bit. Wanna help a guy out?”

Blaine bit his lip to keep from laughing. Puck had really tried to serenade someone with that? “Why not?” he said. “I’d be happy to teach them to you.”

Puck leaned back, looking satisfied. “I wouldn’t have expected you to know Queen at all, actually,” he said confidingly. Puck turned a little to the side. “I mean Hummel never—“ Puck stopped short, his face slackening with surprise. Blaine followed his line of sight and saw Kurt, who had paled dramatically, his eyes fixed on Puck.

“You know Kurt?” Blaine asked with confusion.

Puck didn’t even seem to hear him. Instead, he stormed across the room, his eyebrows gathered together in an angry expression, his shoulders tense. Kurt looked like he wanted to run almost, but before he could Puck was there in his personal space. Blaine hurried over - he wasn’t sure what was going on, but Kurt’s pale face and Puck’s thunderous expression didn’t add up to anything good.

“What the hell man,” Puck was saying as Blaine approached. “We thought you’d disappeared! Or moved out of the country or something!”

Kurt was still pale. He was gripping the edge of the register as if it was the only thing holding him up. He made a move as if to fend Puck off, his fingers fluttering weakly. Puck didn’t look intimidated. Instead he seemed almost angry.

“Your aunt told us you were taking a break or something with your grandma! What the fuck are you doing here?!”

“Hey,” Blaine started, taking Puck’s shoulder. Puck shook him off.

“Back off loverboy,” he said roughly. “This is between me and Hummel.”

Puck didn’t take his eyes off Kurt, who hadn’t even seemed to notice Blaine’s interruption. Kurt looked worryingly wide-eyed and pale, and Blaine wanted to tell Puck to cut it out and leave him alone, but it didn’t seem like it would do much good. Puck was too determined. And, to Blaine’s shame, he felt a small spark of curiosity. How did Puck and Kurt know each other? Why was Puck so angry? Why did Kurt look like Puck was some sort of ghost from his past coming back to haunt him?

Puck’s hands were curled into fists. “Dude, we’ve been worrying about you for months and you just ditch us like we’re last weeks news? What the fuck is up with that?!”

Kurt, if it was possible, looked even worse. Blaine’s curiosity spiked, but so did the desire to get between Puck and Kurt somehow. Still, it was looking more and more likely that Puck and Kurt had been friends at some point, which was such an odd thought - they seemed like the last sort of people who would get along.

“Man, Rachel’s gonna be pissed,” Puck said, shaking his head. “She was sure that you’d gone to New York or something, said it was the only reason you wouldn’t have tried to talk to us all summer.”

Kurt’s eyes, if it was possible, widened even further with panic and his hand flashed out, gripping Puck’s sleeve. He was mouthing words, but no sound was coming out. Blaine, who had never tried lip-reading in his life, thought Kurt might be saying “don’t,” or “please.” Puck stared down at the hand gripping his shirt and he sighed.

“You know we want to help, right?” Puck asked. “That’s all we want. Rachel and Mercedes and the girls have been going insane dude. They think you’re—well, hurting yourself or something.” Puck looked vaguely uncomfortable. “And Hudson’s the worst, he keeps blaming himself—“
Kurt looked away and withdrew his hand. Puck’s anger, which had abated in the face of Kurt’s obvious panic, resurfaced again, stronger than before.

“What, you don’t care?!” he spat. “Look, I know you’ve had a shitty year, Hummel, but that doesn’t mean you get to just push everyone away however you please. They care about you!” He hesitated for a moment, then added roughly, “Fuck it all, I care about you! What you’re doing now, hiding and wasting away, that’s not helping anyone, least of all you.”

Kurt didn’t look at him. He looked smaller than he had before, as if he was curling in on himself. Blaine had to stop himself from going over and pulling Kurt into a hug. They weren’t close, Blaine reminded himself, and it looked like Kurt wouldn’t welcome contact from anyone right now, especially not a coworker who he barely had an acquantince with.

From the back, Helen appeared, carrying a stack of books. “Kurt, where did—“ Helen stopped short at the scene going on in front of her. She looked from Kurt’s downturned face to Puck’s angry expression, and sighed. “Puck, isn’t it?” Puck nodded shortly, still angry. “If you wouldn’t mind coming back at another time? Kurt is still working right now.”

Puck apparently couldn’t transfer his anger with Kurt over to his aunt, for all he said was, “Fine.” He turned on his heel and stormed out, ignoring the interested looks of the rest of the customers.
Helen turned to Kurt and put a hand on his shoulder. “Are you alright?” she asked. There was a knowing edge to her voice that told Blaine she knew the details behind the confrontation between Puck and Kurt, and she also knew that no matter Kurt said, he wasn’t alright.

Kurt, without looking at her, nodded. Helen didn’t seem to believe him, but she patted his shoulder once more and went into the back. Blaine, however, didn’t move.

“Who was he?” Blaine asked, unable to hold his curiosity back. Kurt didn’t look at him. “Kurt? What happened? Why is he angry with you? What—“

Kurt looked up then, and Blaine stopped short at the anger in his face. His eyes, usually intense, were even brighter in his anger, and a flush was rising on his cheekbones. He made a slashing motion that needed no translating - stop, it said. Blaine wanted to protest, wanted to say that Kurt could confide in him, that Blaine wanted to know about him, to find out everything he could . . . . But Kurt’s expression stopped him short, reminded him that Kurt had no reason to confide in him or trust him, no matter how much Blaine wanted him to.

“I just—“ Blaine started, then stopped himself. I just want to know you, he wanted to say. You’re so beautiful and so sad and I want to help you. That’s all I want. Please. The words wouldn’t leave him.

Kurt shook his head and made another motion, his expression stony and cold. Blaine couldn’t translate it, but he got the gist - leave me alone. Blaine bit his lip. He remembered Kurt’s soft, affectionate expression from before, the gentle amusement in his eyes, and he wished desperately that he could have that back instead of this Kurt who was staring at him with cold, angry eyes. But Blaine couldn’t think of the words to say that would make things okay between them. So, with another look back, he turned and left, returning to his post by the door.

As the day went on, Blaine snuck dozens of looks at the register. Kurt, as far as he could tell, never looked at him. Not once.

-

The next day, Blaine didn’t attempt to talk to Kurt when he came in, as he always had in the past. The memory of Kurt’s sharp, angry face kept Blaine from even trying. Kurt sent him a look or two, but he didn’t cross the barrier either. Blaine didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. It looked like whatever relationship he’d been able to build with Kurt was on the edge of disintegrating. And Blaine had no idea how to re-build it, or even if he wanted to.

Tiredly, he started to play the piano. The keys blurred in front of his eyes, morphing into the look in Kurt’s eyes as he made a sharp, angry go away gesture and Blaine forced himself to stop and stare until all he saw was the piano in front of him. Then he took a deep breath and re-tried. For a little while he played whatever came to mind, chord progressions of half-remembered songs, light, lilting melodies, and the like.

He could feel Kurt’s eyes on him more steadily now that he was engrossed in the music. Blaine bit his lip and, coming to a sudden decision, changed the half-remembered Chopin he was playing into the beginning of a song. He didn’t look up as he began to sing, but he knew Kurt was watching:

“Words are flowing out like endless rain into a paper cup,
They slither while they pass they slip away across the universe
Pools of sorrow, waves of joy are drifting through my opened mind,
Possessing and caressing me
Jai guru de va om.”

Blaine, for as long as he could remember, had loved this song. His parents had never been very musical - Blaine had had to beg for piano and violin lessons. All he’d ever ask for when his birthday or Christmas came around was CDs and records and sheet music. His childhood consisted more of lying on his back, listening to one song or another than watching television or playing outdoors.

The thing about the Beatles was that it was one thing that had been able, for a brief period of time, to connect him to his father. They were one of the few bands that his father didn’t consider useless crap, and when Blaine had begun listening to them at thirteen or so, his dad had been delighted. For a few months, they would discuss songs meanings and what their favorite album was and debate the merits of McCartney’s writing versus Lennon’s.

Then, of course, Blaine had had the nerve to come out as gay. After that, he and his father didn’t talk at all.

“Nothing’s gonna change my world
Nothing's gonna change my world
Nothing's gonna change my world
Nothing's gonna change my world.”

Blaine had never tried looking up the background to Across the Universe, but he’d always felt that the song conveyed - well, hope. The idea that happiness was there to be spread from person to person, if they all were just open to receiving it. He looked over at Kurt, who was watching him dark, shining eyes and felt, not for the first time that week, a wave of compassion. He didn’t know what had happened to Kurt. He doubted now that he would ever find out, or that Kurt would ever tell him. But Kurt seemed to carry the world on his shoulders sometimes and Blaine wanted to help ease the burden, even if he had no idea what that burden was.

Kurt didn’t want to talk to him. But Blaine knew better than most people that music could convey so much more than conversation sometimes. Kurt, he felt, was one of the people who realized that too. The look on his face as he watched Blaine play seemed to convey as much.

“Images of broken light which dance before me like a million eyes,
They call me on and on across the universe,
Thoughts meander like a restless wind inside a letter box they
Tumble blindly as they make their way
Across the universe
Jai guru deva om.

Nothing's gonna change my world
Nothing's gonna change my world
Nothing's gonna change my world
Nothing's gonna change my world.”

Blaine realized he had a ring of customers around him now, but he ignored them. Kurt hadn’t moved from the register and he hadn’t taken his eyes off of Blaine. He didn’t look tearful or even sad, but thoughtful. His mouth was twisted into a frown. Blaine wondered what Kurt was reading from him, if it was the same thing he was trying to tell.

“Sounds of laughter, shades of earth are ringing
Through my open ears inciting and inviting me
Limitless undying love which shines around me like a
million suns and calls me on and on
Across the universe
Jai guru deva om

Nothing's gonna change my world
Nothing's gonna change my world
Nothing's gonna change my world
Nothing's gonna change my world
Jai guru deva . . . .”

Blaine trailed off, and the customers surrounding him burst into applause. Blaine didn’t pay attention as a few came up to him, insisting on letting him know how much they loved that song and how well he’d sung it. He only had eyes for Kurt, who had turned away the moment the song had ended. Kurt rang through a few customers listlessly, his head bowed so Blaine couldn’t read his expression. When Helen emerged from the back, Kurt spoke to her quietly and she took over for him at the register, allowing him to escape.

Blaine sighed and turned back to the customers, smiling and thanking them for their compliments. All the while, his mind was on Kurt. As the customers left him, he went back to playing idle melodies, still distracted. It wasn’t until he heard a loud female voice that he was jolted out of his daydreams.

“I demand to see Kurt Hummel! Where is he? Kurt? Kurt?!”

Blaine looked over at the register to see a short, dark-haired teenage girl locked in a staring contest with Helen. She was surrounded by a group of at least ten other teenagers. Blaine thought he spotted Puck among them and wondered if these were the friends that he’d mentioned when he had yelled at Kurt.

“Rachel, honey, Kurt—“ Helen tried, but the girl, Rachel, cut her off.

“I know he doesn’t want to see us, Ms. Hummel, but please, please let us see him,” Rachel said, her voice softening.

“Ms. Hummel?” another girl, this one larger and black, stepped forward. “Can you just bring him up here? Kurt will let us know if he doesn’t want to talk to us on his own. We deserve that much, at least.”

Helen hesitated, then sighed. “I didn’t like that he pushed you all away in the first place,” she told them. “He needs his friends. Hold on a minute, he’s in the back.”

She disappeared. The group pulled closer together and talked to each other in undertones. Blaine wondered if they’d find it strange if he tried to get closer. He bit his lip and looked over the shop. They weren’t as busy as they had been before. Hesitantly, he made his way over to the group. They didn’t seem to notice him approaching, because just as he got close, Kurt emerged from the back.

Helen obviously hadn’t told him why he was wanted up front. He froze when he saw his friends, his face going white. He made to turn back, but Helen was there, preventing him.

“Kurt,” Rachel said, all authority and bossiness gone from her tone. She sounded a little lost, as if she couldn’t understand why Kurt kept avoiding them.

Kurt seemed to recognize that in her voice as well, for he softened a little bit, and some color came back into his cheeks. He turned back towards the group and eyed them warily. Blaine stayed close to the bookshelves, close enough to hear everything, but enough away that they would hopefully ignore him.

One of the boys, a very tall boy, stepped forward. “C’mon man,” he said. “We just wanna talk to you, that’s all.”

Kurt hesitantly took a step forward. The entire group perked up. Then, just as hesitantly, he stepped back. His entire body spoke of his indecisiveness, how he was torn between moving forward and moving back.

“Look, choir-boy, while I know we’ve had our differences in the past, that doesn’t mean I don’t want to help now,” one of the girls said derisively. She was tall and extremely pretty, and Blaine wondered if she was the only Latina in Lima, as it was mostly a white town. “So stop pussy-footing around already.”

“Santana’s right, Kurt,” another girl told him with a serious expression. She was just as pretty as her friend, only blonde and blue-eyed. “She’s right about everything. That’s why I keep telling Lord Tubbington to listen to her, but he doesn’t. He’s a bad cat.”

The entire group seemed to pause, then shake off the girl’s statement. Blaine had thought it was rather odd himself, but he wondered if she regularly said things like that, because everyone else seemed used to it.

Kurt made a signal. Blaine had no knowledge of what it meant, but Rachel seemed to. “Kurt, we aren’t going to leave you alone. We’re your friends.”

“Yeah, you may have forgotten that, but we haven’t,” Puck said mulishly. Rachel gave him a sharp look, then turned back to Kurt.

“Can we please just go somewhere and talk? We just want to know you’re alright. I haven’t heard from you in months Kurt, I thought you’d died.”

Melodramatic, Blaine thought, but effective, he added, seeing Kurt’s stricken expression. He made another motion. Once again, Rachel seemed to understand it. Blaine wondered if she’d really learned sign language or if she was just good at guessing.

“I know you’re working, but I’m sure Helen could spare you for a little while?” She looked over at Helen, who gave a short nod, her lips pressed into a thin line. “Please?”

Kurt still seemed hesitant. The black girl stepped forward.

“Kurt,” she said, drawing Kurt’s attention to her. He seemed to shrink in on himself a little. The girl smiled. “Kurt, we’re your friends. I’m your best friend. You deserted all of us.” Kurt made a motion, his expression starting to turn angry, but the girl ignored it. “We understand why you did, but that didn’t make it any easier. And you never told us if you were okay or if you were getting better or if you were hurting. We were worried about you. We’re still worried about you. And it would make all of us feel better if you just sat down with us and talked for a little while.”

“Mercedes—“ Rachel started, looking between her and Kurt worriedly.

The tall boy cut her off, saying impatiently, “C’mon, dude! You know Burt would’ve wanted—“
He didn’t finish. It seemed even he noticed the way Kurt had instantly withdrawn on the mention of the mysterious Burt, his face closing up and turning icy.

“Finn!” Rachel said, hitting his shoulder, which was the highest part of him she could reach.

“Hudson, you moron,” Puck hissed.

Kurt stared at them all, his lips in a thin line, then bent to write something on the notepad he carried around with him. The group seemed to hold their breath as one. He slid the pad over to Mercedes, who picked it up eagerly, nearly dropping it in her haste. Her face fell as soon as she read it.

“He wants us to leave,” she said with disappointment. She held up the note for everyone else to see.

“Kurt—“ Rachel tried again, but Kurt turned away from them to face the register, his face a stony mask.

“I think you kids had better leave,” Helen said quietly, approaching from the back. Blaine wondered if she had watched everything from the side as he had. He thought he saw her glance at him, but a second later she was talking to Rachel, so he decided he must have imagined it. “You can come back at any time,” she told Rachel gently.

“Come on, Rachel,” said one of the other girls, an Asian teenager wearing a lot of black. “We’d better go.”

With many backward looks, they left. Blaine hesitated for a moment, shooting a look at a tense Kurt who was listening to something Helen was saying in an undertone, then hurriedly followed them.

They were standing outside the door, talking in low, furious voices. As Blaine approached, he heard Rachel lecturing Finn about the proper ways of talking to someone who had recently lost a loved one. Blaine stumbled a little bit and cursed, and before he knew it he had eleven pairs of eyes on him.

“Who’re you, shortie?” the Latina girl, Santana, asked derisively. Blaine bristled.

“That’s Blaine,” Puck said, to the puzzlement of every other person in the group. Noticing their confusion, Puck rolled his eyes. “He works at the bookshop? He’s their personal Piano Man or something.”

“A performer?” Rachel said shrewdly, edging forward until she was in Blaine’s personal space. Blaine took a step back, unnerved by the look in her eyes.

“I just—“ he said, then stopped, wondering why he’d felt it was a good idea to follow these people he barely knew. “I just want to help,” he finished lamely.

There was a pause.

“Help Kurt, you mean?” Mercedes said, stepping forward. She looked suspicious. “Why would you want to?”

Blaine was nonplussed by her expression. “He’s a coworker,” he said hesitantly. “And a friend, I guess. I want to help him move past whatever happened to him to make him so sad.”

Santana edged forward. “You a homo?” she asked casually.

Blaine winced, then sighed. “Yeah,” he said reluctantly, knowing the conclusion that they’d jump to. Not, he thought as he watched Finn and Mercedes’ expressions harden, that they’re wrong, exactly. But I don’t want to help Kurt just because I like him and think he has the most gorgeous eyes I’ve ever seen.

“What, you want to fix him so you can get in his pants?” Mercedes asked, her mouth in a thin line. “Look, we haven’t been close for a while now, but if you think I’m going to let you mess with my boy’s heart like that—“

“Woah,” Blaine said, holding up his hands defensively. “I’m not—It’s not—I’m not trying to get into Kurt’s pants.” He could feel the blush climbing up the back of his neck, but he ignored it as much as he could. “I like him and I want to help. It’s nothing—more than that.”

Mercedes face softened a little.

“You know,” Rachel said slowly, eyeing Blaine critically. “A little romance in his life could drastically boost Kurt’s spirits.”

“Rachel—“ Mercedes said, looking annoyed again.

Blaine interrupted her. “I’m not taking advantage of Kurt,” he said firmly. “I don’t know what happened, but he’s obviously not in a good place right now and the last thing he needs is—“ Me and my problems, he wanted to say, but he barely knew these people, “—a romantic interest.”

Rachel was frowning, but Mercedes looked pleased.

“But you do want to date him,” one of the girls, the Asian one in black, piped up.

Blaine hesitated. He’d be lying if he said that he hadn’t considered dating Kurt. Kurt was beautiful and Blaine wanted nothing more than to know him better. But at the same time, it made him feel a bit small for wanting to date someone who was so obviously hurting.

“Yeah,” he admitted finally. “But I’m not going to act on it now. It’s not the right time.”

“Dude,” Puck interrupted, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t know about homos, but getting into a girl’s pants can make me feel high for hours, you know? Maybe you should,” he wagged his eyebrows, “do it.”

He got on a smack on the shoulder from Mercedes. Blaine winced in sympathy - it looked like she packed a punch.

A blonde girl sidled up to Blaine’s side. “You want to be Kurt’s special friend?” she asked, almost naively.

Blaine nodded cautiously. The girl beamed and took his hand in hers. Blaine was too startled to stop her, although she dropped it with a frown after a moment.

“They’re not as soft as Kurt’s,” she complained. “I thought all gay boys had soft hands. Maybe Kurt’s just special.” She blinked at Blaine. “I dated Kurt for a whole week, so that means I get to have a say in who he dates,” she said. Blaine wondered if the face she was making was supposed to be intimidating. It wasn’t. It was like he was trying to watch a kitten imitate a lion. “So no hurting him, ‘kay? I’ll make Santana hurt you then, and I don’t really want to because you’re so pocket-sized and cute, even if your hands aren’t soft.”

Blaine stared at her. Santana laughed.

“Meet Brittany,” she said with amusement. Blaine turned towards her. She looked much less scary when she was smiling. “I’m Santana, by the way.”

“Hi,” Blaine said, feeling pathetically out of his depth. “Is she always like that?” Santana’s eyes hardened and Blaine realized that he maybe he should watch what came out of his mouth more often. “I mean! Uh! She’s trying so hard to be intimidating and she’s more like a kicked puppy or something . . . .”

He relaxed when Santana’s eyes softened. “Only when she’s protecting someone she likes,” Santana murmured. “Although I agree with her. You hurt Hummel, I’m going all Lima Heights on your lily-white ass, you hear?”

“Okay?” Blaine muttered. Why did I follow them? He wondered.

“Look, Blaine,” Rachel butted in. “Do you even know why Kurt is . . . . Well, acting as he is?”
Blaine shook his head and Rachel sighed.

“His dad died last year,” she said quietly. Blaine froze. “He was the last parent Kurt had and they were really close. He had a heart attack and was in a coma for a couple weeks before he passed away.”

Oh, Blaine thought stupidly. It explained a lot. Kurt’s grief, why he was living with his aunt instead of with his parents, the way he wouldn’t talk. Blaine remembered Finn’s blunder in the shop and realized Burt must’ve been Kurt’s dad’s name. Blaine couldn’t even imagine losing a parent. Even though he and his father had never seen eye to eye, to lose him so suddenly and when he was still young—

Blaine shook his head. And if he felt like that with the rocky relationship he had with his father, how could Kurt, who was apparently close to his, feel?

“How long has he been like that?” Blaine asked quietly.

“Burt died last September,” Finn said. Blaine looked up at him and was surprised by the amount of grief in his face. “He was dating my mom,” Finn added. “Kurt—man, there’s just this huge difference between how he was then and how he is now. He just shut down after Burt died, you know? Quit Glee and everything.”

Blaine froze. “Glee?” he asked. “He was in glee?”

The group exchanged looks. “Yeah,” Mercedes said. “We all are. Didn’t you know?”

Blaine shook his head. The only time he would’ve met them was during Sectionals last year, but they’d been against a group of elderly people getting their GEDs and, unluckily for them, Vocal Adrenaline. They hadn’t even had a chance.

“He sang?” Blaine said, almost to himself.

Music was everything to Blaine. He’d been playing instruments since he was a small child, he’d sung in every choir he could get his hands on, he’d joined the Warblers as soon as he possibly could. He loved singing and performing. It was so strange to think that Kurt, the boy he assumed that he had nothing in common with, would share that with him.

It explained a few things, such as Kurt’s knowledge of piano chords and the strange, longing look in his eyes whenever he watched Blaine play. Blaine wondered why Kurt didn’t just sing again if he wanted to so much.

“He hasn’t talked since September?” Blaine asked.

“No,” Mercedes said. “When he came back to school after his dad’s funeral, he already wasn’t talking.”

“He quit Glee the same day,” Rachel added. “Which I felt was a mistake on his part. Kurt always expressed so much when he sang that I felt he could have used performing to ease his suffering. Alas, Kurt never seemed to agree with me.”

Blaine felt a sudden, burning desire to hear Kurt sing. What would he sound like? He’d never heard Kurt’s voice, so he couldn’t even begin to guess.

“What part was he?” he asked suddenly.

Finn and Puck looked confused, but Rachel was smiling as she said, “Countertenor. Although he was lowering to a tenor, I believe, before . . . .”

Blaine blinked. Countertenor, he mused. Which meant Kurt probably had a high speaking voice as well. Blaine smiled. He supposed he would’ve been surprised if Rachel had told him that Kurt was a baritone. He definitely didn’t look the part. Countertenor fit him nicely.

“I’ll talk to him,” he told them, more determined than ever.

-

It wasn’t until Blaine re-entered the shop that he realized he had no idea how to talk to Kurt.
They’d spoken before, but it had only been about shop things or, memorably, the time Blaine had found Kurt crying behind the shop. Beyond that? Nothing. Blaine had called them friends, but they weren’t, not really.

Courage, Blaine reminded himself. Then, taking a deep breath, he made his way up the register.
Kurt was still up there, but his shoulders were tense as he rang a customer through, and his smile was forced and strained. Blaine winced at the sight of it. He waited until Kurt had finished with his customer, all the while wondering how he supposed to get through to Kurt when his best friends couldn’t do it.

“Kurt?” Blaine said as the customer turned away. Kurt glanced over at him. His eyes were still icy and his mouth was curled into a tight frown now that the need to pretend to be pleasant was fulfilled. “I was wondering—That is, if you’d be fine with it—Would you—“ Shit, Blaine thought wildly. This was why he didn’t ask people out on dates. It was so much easier just to serenade them. “Doyouwanttogohavecoffee?”

Kurt blinked at him, then slowly made a signal. Blaine didn’t even need to know what it meant. Slower, Kurt was telling him, and Blaine could feel a flush beginning to burn at the top of his ears.
“Do you want to go have a coffee with me? After work, maybe?”

Kurt eyes widened and his jaw dropped. Blaine waited patiently, but his nervousness kicked into overdrive when all Kurt could do for a few minutes was blink stupidly at him.

“Please?” he added, feeling pathetic.

Kurt closed his jaw and his eyes narrowed suspiciously. He fumbled for his notepad without taking his gaze off of Blaine and wrote something down.

Why? Blaine read.

Blaine sighed. “I want to get to know you better,” he said, forcing himself to be as honest as he could, even though he wanted to hide from Kurt’s eyes. “I want to be your friend.” Well. That didn’t sound pathetic at all, did it? Blaine winced internally, though he tried to keep his face as calm as he could.

Kurt, however, just looked shocked again. Blaine wondered if Kurt had ever had someone ask to be his friend before. He couldn’t help but wonder why. Remembering his own experiences, Blaine thought it was probably because Kurt was gay. He tried to swallow the hard knot of anger forming in his stomach.

“Will you?” he asked again, almost desperately.

Kurt looked him over. Blaine tensed, holding himself almost painfully straight. He had the urge to stand up on his tip-toes to appear taller and smothered it.

Slowly, Kurt nodded.

Blaine’s entire body collapsed in relief and he could feel his mouth stretching into a huge smile.
“Oh thank God,” he muttered. Kurt’s sudden smile told Blaine that he hadn’t been as quiet as he’d meant to be. “Um. After work then?”

Kurt nodded and then made a shooing motion. Blaine laughed. “Yeah, yeah, back to work. Don’t forget!”

Kurt shook his head, his smile widening. Blaine counted that as an accomplishment.

-

Blaine knew that his nervousness was unneeded, but he couldn’t help the jittery sensation building as he waited outside of Secondhand Storytelling for Kurt to join him. It wasn’t so much that he was going on a date - Blaine had had those before, although all of them had never gone any further and had ended badly - but that he was going on a date with Kurt. Although, he guessed it wasn’t really a date, per se. Kurt didn’t know that Blaine was gay, let alone that Blaine might like him romantically.

Blaine looked up as Kurt appeared in the doorway. Blaine smiled at him. Kurt looked about as nervous as Blaine felt.

“Ready to go?” he asked. Kurt nodded sharply. “I was thinking that the Lima Bean would be a good place. They have good coffee there. Meet you there?” Another sharp nod.

The car ride seemed both too long and too short at the same time. Blaine was a bundle of nerves when he parked his car in the Lima Bean’s parking lot, and when he managed to reach Kurt, he saw that Kurt didn’t look much better. That, however, made Blaine feel a bit calmer. One of them had to be cool about this.

“Come on, it’s cooler inside,” he said.

The Lima Bean was air-conditioned and quiet. There were only a few people sitting down and there was no line at the counter.

“Medium drip for me,” Blaine told the barista, a small girl with dreads and a tattoo peaking out from the edge of her sleeve.

He turned to Kurt to see him writing something down and sliding it across to the barista. She read it and nodded, handing it back to Kurt.

“Medium drip and grande non-fat mocha,” she read off. “Is that going to be all today?”

“Yeah,” Blaine said, eyeing Kurt. He wouldn’t have pegged him for the non-fat mocha type.

“8.36,” she told him. He handed her a ten, waving off Kurt’s attempts to give him money.

“My treat,” he told Kurt as they walked away to wait for their coffee. “Don’t worry about it.”

Kurt looked a little uneasy, but he nodded in acceptance. They sat in silence for a little while until Blaine leaned forward.

“So, those were your friends at the shop today?”

Kurt tensed. The look he shot Blaine was pure ice.

I don’t want to talk about it, he wrote down.

Blaine sighed. He supposed he shouldn’t have been so blunt about it.

“They seemed like they really cared about you,” he tried. Kurt turned his face away, his mouth twisted into a frown.

“Medium drip and grande non-fat mocha!” the barista called. Blaine looked from Kurt to their coffee, sighed, and stood up.

When he came back, Kurt’s expression had softened a little bit. There was a new note waiting for Blaine.

I’m sorry. I just don’t want to talk about them right now.

Blaine smiled. “It’s fine,” he said. “It was probably bad taste to bring them up anyways.”
They sipped in silence for a little bit. Then Blaine said, “How long have you played piano?” Kurt’s head snapped up. He stared at Blaine with surprise for a long moment. Blaine smiled. “You told me the chords for “Edleweiss,” remember?” he said.

Kurt’s surprised expression melted away.

Since I was six, he wrote down. He hesitated, then added, I learned from my mother.

Blaine could feel his face softening. “She’s gone, isn’t she? Helen told me.” Then he winced. Does my mouth just run without me even noticing? he wondered. He hadn’t even meant to say that Kurt, that was completely insensitive--

Kurt nodded sharply. She died when I was eight, he wrote, to Blaine’s surprise. He would’ve expected Kurt to be as closed off about his mother as he was about his friends. His expression was perfectly calm - almost too calm. Blaine supposed he must’ve been as close to his mother as he had been to his father, and felt a stab of sorrow. How unfair was it, to lose parents that you loved so deeply so young?

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sure it was hard.” He hesitated, then said, “Both of my parents are still alive.” Kurt’s hand tightened around his coffee cup until the knuckles looked white. “I get along fine with my mom, even though she’s barely ever home. But my dad—“ Blaine shook his head. “We used to be fine. But when I came out—“

Kurt’s hand jerked and he nearly spilled his coffee. “Careful!” Blaine cried, reaching out to steady him. Kurt didn’t seem to notice. He was staring at Blaine, wide-eyed.

You’re gay? He scribbled out hurriedly.

Blaine nodded. “I thought you knew,” he said. “I let Helen know after I started working and she told me it wouldn’t be a problem because—“ Because her nephew is gay too.

I had no idea, Kurt wrote, shaking his head with disbelief.

“My dad isn’t too pleased about it,” Blaine told Kurt. “He thinks—I’m freaky, or abnormal or something. He never says it, but I can tell he’d rather have a son who is on the football team and dates cheerleaders. Instead, he got me.”

Kurt was staring at him now. Blaine closed his eyes. He didn’t know why he was telling Kurt this. In part, he supposed, it was to even the playing field. He knew about Kurt’s dad, which Kurt wasn’t even aware of, and now Kurt knew about his. And, in part, it was because he wanted Kurt to know him just as much as he wanted to know Kurt. And . . . Kurt was watching him with sad, sympathetic eyes. He understood. Blaine needed that understanding like he needed air.

I’m sorry, Kurt wrote, echoing Blaine’s earlier sentiments.

“One day, I hope he’ll accept me,” Blaine murmured. “But I just—I can’t see him ever doing it. What kind of father doesn’t love his son enough to accept him for who he is?” Crap, Blaine thought as soon as the words left his mouth. Too bitter, that sounded too bitter—

If he doesn’t love who you are, Kurt wrote, than he isn’t a good father. His eyes were very sad. Blaine supposed Kurt’s father must’ve accepted him as he was. If they had been as close as Kurt’s friends had told him, than Kurt probably had come out to him. Blaine wondered how Burt had reacted, what he’d said. He almost wanted to ask, but he feared what Kurt would say. He didn’t want to lose the connection they were building.

“I’m sorry,” Blaine said, forcing a smile. “I didn’t mean to make this so gloomy. So! How’s the shop coming along? Helen told me that profits are rising . . . .”

Kurt eyed him closely, but accepted the change in subject without objection. They spent the next hour discussing light pleasantries before parting ways. Still, Blaine felt accomplished. Even if the rest of the conversation had been without depth, he had managed to reveal a part of himself to Kurt that he normally kept hidden away from everyone. And Kurt, in return, had responded to that by expressing himself more openly. It was a start.

-

“One fine day
You'll look at me
And then you'll know our love was meant to be
One fine day
You're gonna want me for your girl.”

Blaine hummed the melody under his breath as he strummed casually on his guitar. It was early still and there wasn’t anyone in the shop except him, Kurt, and Helen, who was still in the back. He noticed that Kurt was listening to him, chin propped up on his hand.

“The arms I long for
Will open wide
Then you'll be proud to have me right by your side
One fine day
You're gonna want me for your girl.”

Kurt smiled a little bit, and Blaine grinned back, strumming more quickly.

“Ooh, now I know you're kind of a boy
Who only wants to run alone
I'll keep waiting
And some day, darling
You'll come to me when you want to settle down.”

Of course, the song was more about a boy who wasn’t the settling type, but the line only wants to run alone struck a chord with Blaine. Suddenly, he felt like he was singing to Kurt, instead of at him. His ears were burning again, and Blaine thought that he’d never blushed so much since he started working at Secondhand Storytelling. He shifted his eyes away from Kurt uneasily. Just friends, he reminded himself. Friends. That’s all.

“Oh, one fine day
We'll meet once more
And then you'll want the love you threw away before
One fine day
You're gonna want me for your girl . . . .”

“Bravo!”

Blaine jumped, looking up. Kurt’s friend Rachel was standing in front of him, beaming. Beside her, Mercedes and Quinn were grinning at him, while Santana looked uninterestedly at her fingernails and Tina clapped. Brittany, Blaine noticed was off browsing books in the animal care section. Blaine flushed as he realized they must have slipped in without him noticing because he’d been too busy staring at Kurt. He really needed to stop doing that.

“That was excellent, Blaine!” Rachel said. “I can’t help but admire your bold choice in not changing the lyrics, despite the fact that you, a male, are singing a song that is clearly meant to be sung by a female. And while your voice went a little sharp in some places - don’t despair, it happens to the best of us! Except me, of course - you actually sang it quite well. But that can only be expected of the Warblers lead soloist!”

Blaine gaped at her. “How did you know that?” he asked. He hadn’t even told Kurt that yet--

Rachel waved a hand. “Well, after you volunteered to help Kurt, I naturally became suspicious of your motives and immediately set out to research your background.” Blaine must have looked alarmed, for Rachel smiled brightly at him and said, “No need to worry! Although you’re from a rival glee club, every report says you’re honorable, and all of your other glee club members only had good things to say about you. I felt we could trust you with Kurt’s well-being after hearing that.”

She talks very fast, Blaine thought, staring at her, a little weirded out by having someone he barely knew investigate his past.

“Shut up, Berry,” Santana said without looking up from her nails. “You’re scaring the hobbit off.”
Rachel glared at her, then turned back to Blaine. “So?” she asked impatiently. When Blaine just stared at her, she frowned. “Did you talk to him?”

“Oh, yes,” Blaine said. “We had coffee a couple of days ago. He, um, told me about his mom.”

Rachel’s eyes widened. “That’s wonderful!” she cried. “He still hasn’t told Finn about his mother! And they were very nearly step-brothers, you know. And, of course, Kurt was in love with him last year.”

Blaine froze. “Kurt was in love with Finn? That tall guy?”

Santana snorted. “Yup. Our very own Frankenteen. Part of my daily entertainment is watching him try and live like us normal-sized humans.”

Finn, Blaine remembered, was very tall and very good-looking. His heart sank. If that was Kurt’s type, it wouldn’t matter if he tried to make a move. Kurt wouldn’t want him anyways.

“Well, yes, but Kurt was very confused at the time,” Rachel said. “Even if Finn were gay, which I can assure you, he’s not, he and Kurt would’ve never worked out.”

“You just say that because you’re his girlfriend,” Mercedes cut in. “They could’ve worked. Maybe. Except Kurt might have murdered Finn when he couldn’t follow the plotline of Wicked.”

“He nearly did, remember?” Tina said. “When Rachel told him about it, the look he sent Finn was so poisonous I thought Finn would drop dead right there.”

“As I said, they would never have worked out,” Rachel continued as if the two girls hadn’t interrupted her. “Now, the next step is to get Kurt to talk about his father. How’s your progress? Have you two become closer? Hm?”

“Um,” Blaine said, unnerved by Rachel’s intense scrutiny. “Well, yes.” They’d talked a few more time and had gone on another coffee date the night before. But their conversation hadn’t wavered from musicals and books. “But he hasn’t said anything about his dad.”

Rachel looked slightly disappointed, but not surprised.

“As New Directions co-captain, I’ve devised a plan to show Kurt that his former teammates support him one hundred percent,” Rachel told him eagerly. “We’re hoping that our show of support with encourage Kurt to confide in us once more. What you need to do is to get Kurt to the desired location.”

Blaine frowned. He looked over at Kurt, who wasn’t watching them anymore. However, the tight lines of his shoulders and the thin line of his mouth showed that he’d seen the girls and he wasn’t pleased by their presence. Blaine bit his lip and looked back at Rachel. She really did seem to care about Kurt. And Kurt, whether or not he wanted to, probably could use his friends.
“Where do you need me to take him?” Blaine asked with some resignation.

Rachel’s grin turned into something that looked eerily like a smirk. Blaine decided that the look was altogether too weird on her.

“McKinley High Auditorium,” she announced triumphantly.

There was a pause.

“What?” Blaine asked, nonplussed. “Isn’t it closed for the summer?”

Rachel suddenly looked very shifty. “We have connections,” she said.

Santana looked up, rolling her eyes. “What she means is that she convinced Puck to break in for her.”

“It’s for the greater good!” Rachel protested.

“Dumbledore always said that,” Brittany commented, wandering up to their group.

“She read all the way to book seven?” Blaine heard Tina mutter to Mercedes.

Mercedes shook her head. “She only read book seven,” she said, just as quiet.

“Do you think Lord Tubbington would like this one?” Brittany asked Santana, holding up a book entitled Quit Smoking Today Without Gaining Weight. “Maybe if he knows he won’t get any chubbier, he’ll stop,” she added hopefully.

Blaine idly wondered who Lord Tubbington was and why Brittany was so concerned with his smoking habits.

“I don’t think he’ll like that one, Brit,” Santana said, pulling the book out of her fingers. “You know he doesn’t like being reminded of his weight.”

For some reason, Rachel, Tina, Mercedes and Quinn all shot Santana strange looks for her comment. Blaine wondered if it was because they couldn’t believe Santana could be so thoughtful. He’d only met her twice, but she seemed like the kind of person to speak her mind. She must really like Lord Tubbington.

“Oh, you’re right,” Brittany said sadly. “I guess I’ll just have to have another talk with him.” She smiled at Santana. “I’m so glad you and Lord Tubbington are friends now!”

“Anyways!” Rachel interrupted loudly. Santana glared at her, much more murderously than Blaine really thought was warranted. “Do you think you can bring him, Blaine?”

“What are you guys planning on doing for him?” Blaine asked cautiously.

Rachel beamed at him. “We’re going to sing to him!” she announced proudly.

Blaine perked up. “What song?” he asked.

“Perfect by Pink,” Rachel said.

Santana smirked. “Don’t you mean Fucking Perfect, Berry?”

Rachel sniffed imperiously. “I stand by my opinion that we should sing the clean version. We don’t need to ruin the song with vulgarity. I’m beyond disappointed that Pink herself chose to do so.”

Blaine frowned at her. “It’s not ruining the song!” he protested. He quite liked Pink. He thought she was a good artist and she liked to throw herself out there. He admired that in a singer. “It’s to make her opinion more pronounced. It gives across a different feeling than just saying you’re perfect to me.”

Rachel was eyeing him suspiciously. “So you would suggest we sing the rated version?” she asked.

Blaine shrugged. “Sing what you want. But I don’t think Kurt would be put off by that version of it.”

Blaine didn’t like changing lyrics. He was of the opinion that if an artist wrote it down that way, they wrote it that way for a reason and to change it was to disrespect the artist. Blaine felt more strongly about it when it was a song that the singer had written themselves, or a song that the singer had expressed was important to them.

“Kurt will love it anyways,” he said. “It’s coming from his friends, isn’t it? That’s all he’s going to care about. And it’ll do him some good. He’s been lonely, this past month or so. I’d always wondered why, but I guess it was because he was missing you.”

Blaine trapped down the bitterness that he wasn’t enough to fill the hole that New Directions had left in Kurt. He couldn’t fill that hole. He couldn’t expect Kurt to regard him with the same amount of trust and affection that he had seemingly placed on his glee friends. It was unfair to Kurt and unfair to his relationship with his friends and, frankly, unrealistic of Blaine. But he couldn’t stop wishing that he could be as close to Kurt, that Kurt would regard him with the same devotion. That they could be friends, good friends, even if they were nothing more.

Rachel was now looking at him with an expression Blaine couldn’t read. He wondered how much of his thoughts had shown on his face, and hurriedly cleared his expression.
“I’ve changed my mind,” she said suddenly. The girls all looked at her in shock (except Brittany, who was distracted by the buttons on her shirt). “We’ll sing it here instead. And I’ve decided . . . .” She bit her lip, looking torn. “I’ve decided Blaine should sing lead.”

“What?” Mercedes and Tina said in unison.

“You’re giving up a solo?” Santana added, her usual look of disdain covered by shock.

“But that never happens,” Quinn muttered, eyeing Rachel suspiciously. “What are you up to, Rachel? You don’t give up a solo unless you’ve got some sort of nefarious plot--”

Rachel still looked uncertain, but her expression turned more determined in the face of everyone’s surprise. “There’s no plot,” she said, almost defiantly. “I just feel that Kurt will respond better to Blaine than he would to me as the lead soloist. And, as we’ve seen, Blaine is capable of holding his own.”

“Rachel—“ Mercedes started, her shock narrowing into suspicion.

Rachel cut her off. “As co-captain, this is my final decision!” she said imperiously. She turned to Blaine. “We’ll come in tomorrow. We don’t want to embarrass Kurt, so when will the shop be the emptiest?”

“Either now or just before we close at nine,” Blaine said. “We don’t get busy until noon or so. You’re sure you want me to sing lead? It’s your song for Kurt . . . .”

He tried not to project how desperately he wanted to be a part of it, even if he didn’t necessarily need to sing lead. He just wanted to be there, showing his support for Kurt.

Rachel smiled at him. “Yes,” she said. “You’ll thank me for it one day. We’ll come in tomorrow around eight thirty. Don’t worry about any of the instruments or background music - we’ve got it covered.”

For the first time since they came in, she looked over at the register. She bit her lip when she saw that Kurt was turned away from them, his shoulders tense. Blaine felt his heart soften at her uncertainty. Rachel was a bit bossy and a little off-the-wall, but she obviously cared quite a bit about Kurt. They all did. Blaine wished that he had friends half as dedicated to him. He loved the Warblers, but he couldn’t see any of them following him around for a year if he cut ties with them, trying to win him back.

“Do you think he’ll talk to us?” Rachel asked Blaine, still watching Kurt.

Blaine sighed. “I don’t know,” he admitted. Kurt’s feelings about his friends were still too sensitive to be deciphered easily. “If you don’t say anything about his dad, then maybe . . . .”

There was a long pause. Then Santana sighed and, to Blaine’s surprise, took Brittany’s hand, leading her to the register.

“Let’s buy your book, Brit,” she said. “Maybe Lord Tubbington will like it after all.”

Brittany’s entire face lit up and Blaine, though he had realized that Brittany was pretty before, saw how intensely beautiful she could be. Blaine also saw the way Santana’s face softened in the wake of Brittany’s smile and a light-bulb went off. Oh, he thought stupidly. He wondered if they were dating yet, or if Santana even realized that she had feelings for Brittany.

“We’ll see you tomorrow,” Rachel told him as she hurried after Brittany and Santana. Mercedes and Tina waved at him as they followed the girls.

Blaine sighed and was about to turn back to the piano when he caught a flash of brown out of the corner of his eye. He turned and saw Helen in the corner of the bookshop, staring across the room at - Blaine followed her line of sight - Brittany and Santana. Blaine frowned, looking between them both. He couldn’t quite figure out Helen’s expression. It wasn’t disgust (not that he would’ve expected it of her) but it wasn’t quite the adult indulgence of teenage love. It looked more like longing.

Blaine stared at Helen for a moment longer, then turned away. He buried the nagging curiosity deep down - it was Helen’s business, not his. And besides, he had work to do.

-

Kurt didn’t look up as the door jingled at eight forty. It was probably a last minute customer rushing to grab a book - maybe a husband needing an anniversary gift, or a parent looking for a good birthday gift. They would probably be out in five, ten minutes tops.

He frowned when the jingle went on for a prolonged period and reluctantly looked up. He tensed when he saw New Directions trudging inside, one after the other. They looked wet and cold - there had been a thunderstorm for the majority of the day - but there was an expectant, giddy look on their faces that Kurt recognized intimately. They were gearing up for a performance. Kurt’s stomach flipped on itself and he carefully set his book down.

The group went up to Blaine immediately. Kurt wasn’t really that surprised - he had been suspicious when he’d seen Blaine talking to the girls yesterday. He’d turned them away when they’d tried to talk with him, however. Kurt supposed that they must have set this up then. He had no doubt that they were planning on singing something to him. It was probably one of Rachel’s misguided attempts to show him how much they cared about him. Kurt idly wondered what song they’d chosen and if he should try and put a stop to it before they could start. If they chose the right song . . . . Well, Kurt couldn’t say what he’d do.

He’d missed them, this last year. It still hurt to see their faces, but as time passed it had faded into a dull ache. They’d been his only friends in the world and, as much as Kurt hated to admit it, he’d been lonely, this past year. But as much as he wanted their company, he wanted to stay away from them. Loving people was just too . . . Difficult. He’d gotten nothing but trouble from caring about people.

He looked up as Rachel approached him. She looked uncharacteristically uncertain.

“Kurt, we know that you don’t want to talk to us,” she said quietly. The rest of New Directions was behind her, their eyes on Kurt. Kurt could feel a blush coming on. “But we hope that you’ll accept that we still care about you, no matter what. And that even if you don’t think so, you’re perfect to us because we love you. And when you’re ready to come back . . . We’ll be there, waiting.”

Kurt bit his lip and watched Rachel return to the group. They made a simple formation in the open part of the store near the front, then waited.

Kurt’s eyes widened as Blaine stepped forward. He looked a little hesitant, but his eyes were warm. Kurt’s blush deepened. Behind him, a piano started, and Kurt blinked with surprise when he saw Brad sitting at it.

“Made a wrong turn once or twice
Dug my way out, blood and fire
Bad decisions, that's alright
Welcome to my silly life.”

The group started to move in a simple two-step dance. Kurt recognized the formation they usually did when they’d thrown something together in a hurry.

“Mistreated, misplaced, misunderstood
Miss 'No way, it's all good'
It didn't slow me down.
Mistaken, always second guessing
Underestimated, look I'm still around.”

New Directions joined in with Blaine as they moved onto the chorus. Kurt could hear Rachel and Mercedes soaring high above everybody else, Finn and Puck and Artie in the background, Tina singing her usual lovely alto. Nostalgia rose in his throat. He’d been a part of that, once. Remember why you left, he thought, trying to distance himself from the performance. You can’t have that, Kurt. You know why.

“Pretty, pretty please, don't you ever, ever feel
Like you're less than fucking perfect
Pretty, pretty please, if you ever, ever feel
Like you're nothing, you're fucking perfect to me.”

Kurt’s eyes widened. New Directions usually avoided songs with swear words in them, or only used the clean versions. He wondered who had decided to use the original lyrics. Blaine stepped forward again, his expression more confident now.

“You’re so mean when you talk
About yourself. You were wrong.
Change the voices in your head
Make them like you instead.

So complicated,
Look happy, You'll make it!
Filled with so much hatred
Such a tired game
It's enough, I've done all I could think of
Chased down all my demons.”

Blaine’s expression darkened and Kurt had the sudden thought that he wasn’t just singing about Kurt anymore. He remembered Blaine’s expression when he’d talked about his dad, the disquiet that Kurt had been able to read in his eyes, in the turn of his mouth. He wondered what other demons Blaine had.

“I’ve seen you do the same
Ohh ohhhhhhh.
Pretty, pretty please, don't you ever, ever feel
Like you're less than fucking perfect
Pretty, pretty please, if you ever, ever feel
Like you're nothing, you're fucking perfect to me.”

Blaine stepped back and Artie wheeled forward. He grinned at Kurt, making a peace sign at him before rolling into his part. Kurt wasn’t really that surprised. Out of all them, Artie was the one who could rap the best. In fact, he had to bit back a smile at the thought of Blaine attempting it.

“The whole world's scared, so I swallow the fear
The only thing I should be drinking is an ice cold beer
So cool in line and we try try try, try, but we try too hard
And it's a waste of my time.
Done looking for the critics, cause they're everywhere
They don't like my jeans, they don't get my hair
Exchange ourselves and we do it all the time
Why do we do that, why do I do that (why do I do that)?”
Behind Artie, Blaine’s voice rose up, “Yeah. Oh, pretty, pretty, pretty—“

The group moved closer, singing in unison. Kurt could feel on their eyes on him, begging him to get what they were saying, to understand that no matter what he was going through or what he’d done to them, that they loved him. They were his friends. That even though he had pushed them away and ignored him, they still thought he was wonderful. Tears were gathering at the edge of his eyes. He desperately wanted to look away, to escape what they were trying to tell him, but he couldn’t move.

He loved them. They had been his family. And a part of him desperately wanted to just go to them and be enfolded in their affection. But another part - the larger part - remembered how much it had hurt to--lose his father, how much losing his mother had broken his heart. How Finn’s words at the end of his sophomore year had made him cry like he hadn’t since he’d been first called faggot at school. He was so sick of losing people. And inviting people in, having people that he cared about, that just made it so much easier for them to leave him.

And he couldn’t deal with that. Not again.

“Pretty, pretty please, don't you ever, ever feel
Like you're less than fucking perfect
Pretty, pretty please, if you ever, ever feel
Like you're nothing than you're fucking perfect to me
Pretty, pretty please, if you ever, ever feel
Like you're nothing, you're fucking perfect to me.”

For a long moment, all they could do was stare at one another. Then, without a sound, Kurt ran. He could hear them calling his name, but he didn’t stop to listen to them. Tears were blurring his vision and his chest hurt. He wanted to run away and run back, to hug them all and scream at them to just leave him alone, hadn’t he gone through enough already?

He had to get away.

-

Blaine didn’t hesitate before following Kurt out the door.

Behind him, he heard Rachel calling Kurt’s name loudly. It nearly made him come to his sense and stop, but he caught of glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye and turned immediately, following it. It was dark enough outside that Blaine’s eyesight was fuzzy around the edges, but he could make out a vague figure in front of him that looked enough like Kurt that Blaine kept following it.

What am I doing? Blaine thought, running faster to try and catch up. He wants to be alone, and I’m following him—

It was all Kurt’s face’s fault, Blaine decided. He’d looked—so conflicted during the song. Like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to be pleased or miserable about his friends singing to him, reaching out to him. Blaine couldn’t stand seeing that expression on Kurt’s face, not when Kurt was faced with acceptance and love, and seeing it edge more and more towards misery as the song went on made Blaine’s heart hurt. And then for Kurt to run out like that—

Blaine couldn’t stand it.

Curse Kurt and his long legs, he thought, running faster. Blaine could curse his own unfortunate height too, but Blaine tried to avoid thinking about how short he was in comparison to everyone else he knew - it was too depressing.
Eventually, Kurt seemed to run out of stamina, for he collapsed against a tree. It was a house-less area that Blaine guessed must be on the edge of Lima, for he could see the highway in the distance, beyond the trees. Blaine was panting as he approached Kurt, who had slipped to the ground, burying his face in his knees.

He slowed as he came closer. Kurt’s shoulders were shaking.

“Kurt?” he asked. Kurt’s head snapped up, and Blaine could see the whites of his eyes in the dark, but little else. “Are you alright?”

Blaine winced at himself. Always the wrong questions, he thought. Of course Kurt wasn’t alright.
Kurt, however, was still frozen in shock at seeing him. Blaine smiled and sat, crossing his knees, pretzel-style, across from Kurt.

“I followed you out here,” he confessed sheepishly. “You seemed . . . Upset.”

Understatement of the year.

Kurt opened his mouth - Blaine could see his teeth - then closed it again. He fumbled around in his pocket for something before pulling out his cell phone. He rapidly typed something in. Blaine wasn’t really that surprised when his own phone buzzed in his pocket - he had set it to vibrate before the performance. Blaine unlocked it to one new text message.

Go away, Blaine, it read.

Blaine frowned at it. “No,” he said. “You’re upset, and I told you before, I’m your friend. Or I would be, if you’d let me. Friends help friends.”

Kurt sighed loudly and typed something else in.

Blaine, I want to be alone. I appreciate this, I do, but please just go away.

“I’m not leaving,” he murmured.

Blaine couldn’t quite read the look Kurt was giving him in the darkness, but there was a certain intensity to it that hadn’t been present before.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked. Then he winced. “Er, text about it, I guess?”

Kurt looked away from him for a long time. Blaine almost decided to just let the question drop and just sit there with him until he was ready to go home. Hopefully he would be soon - the sky was getting darker, and in the distance, Blaine could see lightning. A storm was approaching.

Kurt opened his phone. He typed for a long time. When it was finally sent, it took six texts to finish.

They’re my friends. You’re my friend. But every time I see them, I keep being reminded of what I’ve lost and what I could lose. Everyone I’ve loved has left me in some way, Blaine. Either they’ve died or they’ve just gone away. My mother died when I was eight and my dad. He left. And I loved someone once and they pushed me away. My aunt never cared enough to visit often until recently, and I see my grandmother once a year. Everyone leaves, Blaine, in one or another, and I’m so tired of it. I’m so tired of having my heart broken and having to piece it back together again just so it can be smashed into little pieces time after time. It’s too tiring and too dispiriting. And then, once I’ve strengthened myself enough to cut ties with people, you walk into my life. And they waltz back in with a song and all their emotions and I can’t bring myself to say no. And that’s fucking scary, Blaine. I can’t do it. I have to say no. Or else, my heart is gone again and I’ll never be able to pick up the pieces.

Blaine stared at the messages for a long time. When he looked up, Kurt was looking at him. Above them, lightning flashed. Rain started to fall.

“Look, Kurt,” Blaine said, then stopped.

He didn’t know what to say. Blaine wasn’t good at this sort of thing. He pretended he was, because he was supposed to be - he was a Dalton boy, lead soloist of the Warblers, he’d gotten his shit together. He was no longer a scared little freshman with hair falling into his eyes, hiding his face from everyone who wanted to taunt him for being different. But it seemed like sometimes, with Kurt especially, that freshman peeked out and reminded Blaine he could pretend to be suave and dashing as much as he wanted, but he wasn’t any more confident than anyone else. That he was less so, actually.

Blaine’s grandma - his only surviving grandma at the time, his dad’s mom - had died when he was eleven. They had never been particularly close, because she and his dad hadn’t gotten along at all and Blaine had rarely seen her. But he remembered, quite vividly, going to visit her after she’d been diagnosed with cancer. She had been frail and weak looking amongst the heavy gadgetry surrounding her, but her eyes had been clear and composed. The eyes of a woman who had lived a long life and was going to death with open arms. Greeting death as an old friend, Blaine thought.

She’d taken one look at him and shooed his father out of the room. Then she’d taken his hand.
“Blaine, honey,” she’d said. “One of the truest regrets of my life is that I never got a chance to know you better. And I can’t tell you how sorry I am about that.” Blaine had shaken his head, full of pre-teen bewilderment. She’d smiled. “You’re going to go through some hard times, sweetheart.”

Blaine had frowned at her. “How do you know?” he asked, thinking of the half-hidden thoughts he’d been having lately about one of the older boys at school.

Her smile widened. “Life’s hard, sweetheart. One of the worst things adults do is try and convince you that it’s not.” Her grip on Blaine’s hand tightened. Her hands were warm and dry, crinkly from age. “Listen to me, Blaine. Your daddy might tell you differently, but the best thing you can do through life is going through it by being true to yourself.” He made a face. She laughed. “Yes, a Hallmark sentiment. But it’s true. And I know your daddy and I never saw eye to eye about it - he always thought he had to pretend to be something more to get through life. What I’m telling you, Blaine - and don’t you dare forget this, young man - is that being yourself, being who you are, never hiding that - that’s what will make your life brighter and easier. Because life’s too short to pretend, sweetheart. Take it from a dying old lady.”

Blaine had stared at her for a long time then, quickly and shyly, pressed a kiss to her forehead. He’d backed away quickly, afraid that he’d overstepped himself, but his grandma had had a smile on her face and tears in her eyes. She slowly released his hand, patting it once.

“You’re a sweet boy,” she said quietly. “I do wish we could have had more time together.”

She’d died the next week.

Blaine had never forgotten what she’d told him. It had seemed melodramatic and cheesy to him as a pre-teen, although he’d appreciated the sentiments, but it had gained more sense the older he’d gotten. When he’d come out, it had become his mantra. Be true to who you are, life’s too short to pretend.

And now, staring Kurt in the face, seeing I’m so tired of having my heart broken flashing in front of his eyes, he couldn’t pretend to be suave and charming and dashing.

“I’m sorry,” he said honestly. Kurt’s head jerked. “I’m so sorry about your mom and your dad. But, Kurt, those people back in the bookshop? They love you. They care about you. And pushing them away is not only making them miserable, it’s making you miserable.”

Kurt waved his hand, them remembered that Blaine didn’t know sign language. He took out his phone again. Blaine waited patiently for his phone to buzz, holding back the words that were bubbling to the surface.

I can’t, was all it said.

“You love them,” Blaine continued, tucking his phone away. He almost reached out for Kurt’s hands, but stopped himself, unsure of how Kurt would react. “I get that you’re scared of losing people again. But isn’t having no one at all worse? Isn’t it worse to be alone, to be lonely, to wish for love and never get it?”
Kurt was staring at him now. Blaine shook his memories away.

“You’re scared, Kurt, but everyone’s scared. And it’s easier to be scared together.”

Blaine wondered if he was getting through at all. He like words were getting stuck together in his throat now. He’d never been good with them, not when he was being himself, and trying to get through to Kurt was like breaking down an ice wall.

Kurt’s hand curled around his hesitantly and lightly, as if he was unsure if Blaine would push him away. Blaine clasped it immediately in his own, holding tight.

“Kurt, we’ve known each other for, what, a month? Two? But I consider you a friend.” One of my closest friends, Blaine thought. Maybe even my only friend. He’d never told Wes or David about his father, and they were the only ones at Dalton he spent time with outside of class and glee. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d confided in someone before Kurt. “I want you to be happy. But you’re never going to be if you keep pushing people away.”

The rain was coming down harder now, and they were only partially protected by the tree they were sitting under. Lightning flashed overhead, giving Blaine a moment’s glance of Kurt’s face - wide-eyed and teary. Blaine’s heart ached. He wanted to pull Kurt into a hug, to kiss him, to tell him how wonderful he was and that he deserved everything in the world—

“Come on,” he said, standing and pulling Kurt by their joined hands to his feet. “We’d better go back.”

Kurt didn’t say anything, didn’t even try to gesture. But he followed Blaine. And, to Blaine’s surprise, Kurt didn’t let go of his hand for the entire walk home.

-

Helen sighed, watching the two boys at the other side of the room. She’d hoped that Kurt would warm up to Blaine when she’d hired him, but she’d underestimated both Blaine’s hesitance and Kurt’s fragility when it came to relationships. She watched as Blaine laughed at something Kurt had written and smiled. She was glad that they were getting close now. Blaine was good for her nephew. She hadn’t seen Kurt so relaxed since—

Helen’s lips thinned.

Since Burt had—

She shook her head and turned away. Inadvertently, her eyes landed on two of Kurt’s old friends, the ones from his glee club. Santana, she thought the Latina girl’s name was, and the other blonde one was Brittany. They’d been coming around more often since the day they’d all decided to sing to Kurt. Kurt had rarely spoken of his friends, but it wasn’t hard to see that those girls were in love with each other. Helen could read the signs. She watched as Santana smiled at Brittany’s bowed head - she was reading some book or another. Probably one on smoking, Helen thought, as she seemed particularly concerned with the habit although, although she’d confessed to Helen she didn’t smoke herself.

Helen watched them for a long time. They’re so young, she thought, chest tightening. Young and in love and so, so foolish.

Helen had always hated Lima. There was a reason she’d left as soon as she could and had never came back except for the occasional visit to Burt. Burt, he’d been another story. He liked Lima, liked the smallness and security of it. He’d met Katherine in Lima, and they’d taken over Burt and Helen’s father’s business, the tire shop. Of course, it had been failing by then, but Burt had built it back up to a new glory. Helen had always envied his capability to do things, to make things happen, his dependability. She’d never been reliable. She’d flitted from one job to the next until she’d earned enough money to open her shop. She was proud of Secondhand Storytelling - she often felt that it was a symbol that she wasn’t a failure after all.

Her father had always told her that. “Why can’t you be more like your brother?” he’d complain when she came through the door, sullen after another afternoon in the principal’s office for bad behavior. Burt never got in trouble - he was the golden boy of Lima. Everyone loved him. Helen had been the weird little sister, the geek who loved books and music and theatre. She was the trouble child who punched people in the face when they gave her a weird look. Her parents had loved her, Helen was pretty sure about that, but they had never approved of her like they had of Burt.

She couldn’t think they’d approve of her if she’d ever told them her secret. She’d loved them, and they were good people, but anything different from their way of life shocked them or disgusted them.

She felt ashamed now, looking at Kurt, that she’d had the idea, half-buried in her mind, that Burt would be the same. After all, he’d always been the apple of their parents’ eyes. He’d been on the football team, he’d married the head cheerleader and stayed in Lima. He was the paragon of a small town life. She hadn’t thought the worse of him for it, but she had always assumed that Burt would carry the same casual, my life is right and yours is wrong if it’s not like mine attitude. She regretted thinking that now.

She remembered the first time she’d visited after Kurt was born. Kurt had been about four at the time, maybe five, and the first time Helen had seen him, he’d been wobbling around in Katherine’s heels, wearing a cape, lipstick smeared around his mouth and a tiara on his head. Katherine had been with him, laughing as he attempted to take another step and nearly fell. Helen had felt a stab of regret. Kurt was so different from other little boys she knew - they would disdain wearing make-up even at four, and would rather get dirty than try on their mother’s heels and a tiara. She had wondered at the time, how Burt would raise Kurt, if it turned out it wasn’t some childish phase and that Kurt really did like women’s clothes better than men’s. She felt ashamed remembering the fierce hope she’d had that Katherine would balance out whatever Burt did, that Kurt wouldn’t feel ashamed because his father didn’t like his way of life.

So many things I underestimated about you, brother, she thought, still staring at the teenaged girls.

She hadn’t thought that Burt would accept his son for who he was. It wasn’t because she didn’t love him or admire him—it wasn’t that at all. But the things she admired about Burt didn’t include kindness or tolerance or acceptance. She admired and loved him for his capability, his dependability, the fact that he was her older brother who had never done anything wrong. She loved him knowing - or thinking that she knew - that his tolerance was limited.

Helen had underestimated Burt’s capacity for acceptance, his kindness. It shamed her now, because in it, she saw the sort of snobby thought that said - we were raised the same way, but I can go beyond that because I’m the better person, whereas you cannot. She should never have thought it. She should never have pinned her father and mother’s beliefs on Burt, because he obviously didn’t share them. She should never have thought that he wouldn’t be able to raise his son without condemning him and making him feel ashamed.

Helen sighed, finally looking away from Santana and Brittany. She locked away the longing she felt, determined to keep it caged. She’d kept it secret for so long that it was difficult to even think about speaking of it, to actually say the words aloud. The thought terrified her, made her skin crawl. She couldn’t do it, not even to the nephew that she was coming to love as her own son.
Helen watched Kurt smile at Blaine for a moment longer, then turned back to her work, ignoring the ache in her chest with an ease that spoke of long practice.

-

“And then, oh man, he just got up in front of us and told us all how to do the Single Ladies dance,” Puck said, laughing. “You should have heard him. And slap the butt!” he said, adopting a higher pitched voice.

Blaine couldn’t help laughing. Kurt, when he looked over, was hiding his red face in his hands.

“So what happened after that?” Blaine said, grinning still. “Did you guys actually do it at the game?”

“Well we weren’t going to, but Hudson forced us,” Puck said. “Turns out it was the best damn thing we’d ever done, because we got a touchdown which tied us and Hummel there managed to get the ball between the goal posts.”

“Really?” Blaine asked Kurt, who was burying his face further in his hands. “That’s awesome, Kurt! Man, I would never have guessed you were on the football team. You don’t seem like the type.”

“He was only involved for a few weeks,” Rachel butted in. “Then he quit. But it was certainly one of the more memorable football games.”

“I keep telling Kurt he should re-join,” Tina added. “He looked good in the shoulder pads.”

Mike regarded her with pathetic puppy eyes. Tina made a face and kissed his cheek, then hurriedly reassured him that no, she wasn’t leaving him for a gay boy.

“Or Cheerios again,” Quinn said, smirking. “You know Coach would love to have you back, Kurt.”

Kurt looked up, blush clearing away, and scoffed.

Quinn raised an eyebrow. She definitely had the look of icy disdain down, Blaine thought.

“Oh, don’t be obtuse,” she said. Blaine caught Finn staring at her, eyebrows furrowed, and wondered if Finn knew what obtuse meant. He hurriedly shoved that thought away - that was unkind. “You know Coach has a soft spot for you. You’re the only one besides me who can keep up with her.”

“Hey!” Santana said.

Quinn didn’t even looked at her. “Santana, you actually listened when she told you to be at the bottom of the pyramid.”

Santana glared at the back of Quinn’s head. Blaine was surprised Quinn didn’t burst into flames.

“Cheerios?” he asked, drawing Quinn’s attention.

“McKinley’s cheerleaders,” she explained. Blaine blinked.

“You were a cheerleader?” he asked Kurt, suddenly assaulted by mental images. He shifted. Quinn smirked at him as if she knew what he was thinking about.

Kurt shrugged, then scribbled something down on a napkin, handing it to Blaine.
It was a phase.

“She’d love to have you back,” Quinn said again. “Last year she was always complaining about how the boys weren’t flexible enough.”

Blaine had the sudden urge to glare at her. He didn’t need those mental images, damn it. Kurt shook his head, smiling a little. Quinn sighed heavily.

Blaine looked at his watch, then jumped up. “I’d better get back,” he said apologetically. “Lunch break’s almost over.”

Kurt almost looked like he wanted to join him, but Blaine knew he had at least ten more minutes and fixed Kurt with what he hoped was a stern glare. Kurt’s amused look told him that he hadn’t done as good of a job as he’d hoped. Still, he sat back in his chair and turned to Artie, who had started a story about his summer break.

Blaine hurried away from their lunch spot and checked back in. Helen was up front, dealing with the register for Kurt’s break, so Blaine just went back to his spot up front. They were having a bit of a rush and Helen was giving him looks, so Blaine started tuning up his guitar, searching his brain for a song to sing. He caught sight of Kurt out of the corner of his eye, laughing soundlessly at something Mercedes had said. Mercedes looked more pleased with herself than the situation truly warranted, but Blaine couldn’t blame her - he was always proud when he managed to get Kurt to smile or laugh. Warmth blossomed in his chest at the sight of a happy Kurt and he softly started to play . . . .

“When I see your smile
Tears roll down my face, I can't replace
And now that I'm strong I have figured out
How this world turns cold and it breaks through my soul
And I know I'll find deep inside me I can be the one . . . .”

Kurt had looked over the moment Blaine had started to sing and Blaine hadn’t looked away from him. They held eye contact as Blaine continued.

“I will never let you fall
I'll stand up with you forever
I'll be there for you through it all
Even if saving you sends me to heaven.”

Kurt’s eyes were wide with surprise and Blaine realized that he was, perhaps, being clearer with his feelings than he really should be. But he couldn’t bring himself to stop, or to look away. He wanted Kurt to know that he was there for him, that he wanted to help, that he’d give anything for Kurt to keep smiling the way he had been for the past few days. And he needed it to be just from him, not just from part of the group that was currently staring at Blaine too, wide-eyed as Kurt.

“It’s okay. It's okay. It's okay.
Seasons are changing
And waves are crashing
And stars are falling all for us
Days grow longer and nights grow shorter
I can show you I'll be the one.

I will never let you fall
I'll stand up with you forever
I'll be there for you through it all
Even if saving you sends me to heaven.
‘Cause you're my, you're my, my,
My true love, my whole heart
Please don't throw that away.”

Kurt’s blush was practically tomato red and Blaine could feel a similar blush creeping up the back of his neck. He could see Kurt’s friends staring at him or whispering amongst themselves out of the corner of his eye and winced a little bit.

“’Cause I'm here for you
Please don't walk away and
Please tell me you'll stay woah, stay woah

Use me as you will
Pull my strings just for a thrill
And I know I'll be okay
Though my skies are turning gray

I will never let you fall
I'll stand up with you forever
I'll be there for you through it all
Even if saving you sends me to heaven . . . .”

Kurt’s friends exploded into applause. Blaine, however, only had eyes for Kurt, who was watching him, wide-eyed still with something between surprise and curiosity. Blaine busied himself by tuning his guitar, looking anywhere other than Kurt. The tips of his ears were burning. Blaine liked singing to people, especially his crushes, but he often dealt with a sort crushing embarrassment afterwards, an endless spiral of self-doubt. What if they didn’t like it? What if I chose the wrong song? Was it too much? It was too much.

He looked up when he heard footsteps and gulped when he saw Kurt standing in front of him. He relaxed a little when he saw that Kurt was smiling and didn’t look ready to punch him. Before that morning, Blaine wouldn’t have been sure Kurt really could punch him, but after hearing that he’d been a kicker and a Cheerio, it was hard to believe that Kurt couldn’t do anything he set his mind too.

Kurt handed Blaine a napkin.

That was lovely, he’d written. Blaine blushed.

“Thanks,” he said. Then, quietly, he added, “I meant every word of it.”

When he dared to look up, Kurt was staring at him, his smile thoughtful instead of pleased. Blaine didn’t know if that was a good thing or not. Kurt took the napkin back and scribbled on it with a pen.

Thank you, it said. I was, something scribbled out, touched by it. It meant a lot. Something scribbled out at the end.

Blaine grinned. “No problem,” he said proudly. Kurt hadn’t thought it was too much! He wasn’t running away in fear!

Kurt smiled at him, then waved goodbye, returning to his friends. Blaine returned to his work with gusto, full of enthusiasm. Kurt hadn’t been concerned of weirded out by his song - he’d said it was lovely! It had touched him! Blaine felt like he was flying.

-

Blaine sighed, shifting through a stack of books. Helen had asked him to stay on for a little while to help put things away—apparently one of her regulars had had a doctor’s appointment that they hadn’t known about (Blaine thought it was more likely that they didn’t want to work and had called in with that excuse) and she was one hand short for closing time. Blaine didn’t really mind - it wasn’t like putting books away was such a hardship, and they usually died pretty quickly once closing time came around.

He shifted the empty box onto his hip as he put a few books in their rightful places. He had one more box to go through before he could go home for the night, and he frowned when he realized he’d left it up by the register. Sighing, he put his empty box in their recycling bin to be brought out to the trash tomorrow and returned to the front of the store. When he finally worked his way through the bookcases, he stopped when he saw the register.

Kurt was sleeping at his counter.

Blaine approached cautiously, and yes, he wasn’t just imagining things. Kurt really was asleep at his counter, dark head against the wood, his eyes closed. A book was open in his hand. Blaine, almost despite himself, smiled a little at the picture he made. He looked younger in his sleep, probably because his eyes—the part of him that Blaine always thought made him look older than he really was—were closed.

Blaine spotted his box. He almost didn’t want to leave—Kurt seemed very vulnerable, asleep at the counter—but he did have work to finish. As he bent to retrieve his box, he had a sudden thought and stopped short. It’s cold in here, he thought. Usually Ohio summer nights were warm, but they’d had a recent cold front come through. Kurt’s only in his work shirt, he thought, staring down at the short sleeves. Blaine sighed.

Carefully and quietly, so as not to wake Kurt, he made his way behind the counter and into the back room. He thought he’d seen Helen stash a few blankets back there, but he wasn’t for sure. He smiled when he caught sight of a bright pattern and pulled out a throw. Still being as quiet as possible, he snuck back out front and carefully draped it over Kurt’s shoulders.

Kurt shifted, muttering in his sleep. Blaine froze, his hands covering Kurt’s shoulders as he kept the blanket in place. One of Kurt’s eyes cracked open, and he stared up at Blaine through his lashes. Then, apparently deciding sleep was more important, he closed it again and settled. Blaine sighed with relief and secured the blanket around Kurt’s shoulders. When he was sure it wouldn’t fall, he made his way back to his abandoned box.

He couldn’t stop from smiling as he carried the last of the books through the store. Blaine refused to acknowledge the reason why.

-

“Alright,” Blaine said, biting the end of a pen. “15 letter word. Adaptation to a new climate.”

“Blaine, honey, give me a challenge,” Helen said, grinning in a particualrly shark-like manner. “Acclimatization. Next.”

Blaine scowled as he scribbled the word into the daily crossword puzzle. Helen was amazing at them, while Blaine, though not from lack of practice, was decidedly not. Kurt was better at them than he was too, which was disgruntling and secretly a little hot.

Blaine searched through his clues. “Ha!” he said, spotting one that had been giving him trouble for the past hour. “Five letter world, the third letter is a. The color of a bird with broken wings.” He threw down the paper in challenge, raising an eyebrow. “There’s no way you can get that one.”
Helen, for the first time that morning, looked stumped. Her eyebrows were drawn together and she murmured the clue under her breath once more, as if racking her brains for the answer.
Kurt emerged from the back, and Helen immediately waved him over. With a raised eyebrow, he approached.

“Help me out, nephew of mine,” Helen said. “Five letters, color of a bird with broken wings.”
Kurt stared at her and then, with the help of a very arched eyebrow, gave her a look of such impressive disdain that Blaine felt tempted to applaud. He turned the newspaper towards him, then scrawled out something in the appointed boxes with his pen. He turned it back towards Blaine pointedly.

Blaine looked down. Black, said the box. It suddenly clicked in his mind.

“Blackbird!” he said aloud. Helen stared at him. Blaine understood Kurt’s disbelief now. Had Helen never listened to the Beatles? “Blackbird singing in the dead of night, take these broken wings and learn to fly,” he sang softly.

“Oh!” Helen said, a lightbulb flashing. “Of course. Damnit, how could I forget that.” She looked over at Kurt and shook her head. “No wonder you remembered. Katherine practically raised you on the Beatles. She was their number one fan.”

Kurt tensed. Blaine watched him carefully. Kurt rarely talked about his dead parents, although he had let a few tidbits about his mom slip once or twice. They were a touchy subject for him, not that Blaine could blame him.

“My dad likes the Beatles,” Blaine offered up. “It was the only thing we agreed on for a while, actually.”

Kurt relaxed a little bit and turned towards Blaine, his eyes interested and still a little wary.
Aware of Helen watching them, Blaine chose his words more carefully. “My mom doesn’t like music much. Neither does my dad, really, except for the Beatles. They were baffled when I asked for private music lessons as a kid.” He smiled a little bitterly. “My dad thought it would turn me into a nancy boy.”

He heard Helen mutter an expletive under her breath and his smile turned genuine.

“Never mind, it’s not that big of a deal,” Blaine said, faux-casual. “Parents being parents, you know?”

He turned to go - his crossword was nearly finished, though he didn’t have much heart to do it anymore - and Helen caught his arm. He didn’t look at her.

“Blaine, you know that if you’re in any trouble - any at all - you can come to us, right? We care about you.”

Blaine bit his lip. “Thanks, Helen,” he said, keeping his tone light.

He didn’t want her to know how much it meant to him, hearing those words. None of his teachers had ever said that - first because they didn’t want to, and at Dalton because it was expected he would be a-okay now that he was out of that nasty public school business. His own parents had never—

It meant more than Helen knew, to hear those words.

“Mind if I take my ten?” he asked. He didn’t stop to hear Helen say yes - instead he hurriedly left the shop.

He half-ran to the back alleyway. Blaine stopped, breathing hard as if he’d just run a mile, and leaned against the back of the shop, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. He’d thought he’d worked past this. He was used to his parents, their indifference and intolerance of his life. Blaine had accepted that his parents would never understand him a long time ago. But every once in a while when he stared the issue in the face, it stung as much as the first time he’d really sat down and thought about it.

He loved his parents. He did. But there was so much about their relationship to him that he wanted to change. Blaine just wished that he could do it - that he could be—

Enough, Blaine thought, opening his eyes. I just want to be enough for them. But I never will be. He slid down the wall until he was sitting up against the wall, knees drawn to his chest. He buried his face in his knees.

Blaine envied Kurt sometimes. He’d lost his parents, but Kurt never doubted the love they’d had for him as far as Blaine could tell. Kurt was secure in the knowledge that he’d been—enough for his mom and dad, and that he was enough for Helen. He didn’t feel his father’s disappointment weighing on his shoulders, or his mother’s disapproval. He didn’t wonder what would happen the first time he brought a boy home, how his parents would react.

Because he doesn’t have parents anymore, Blaine, Blaine thought, ashamed of his envy. Kurt was an orphan who had willingly turned mute to express his grief, and all Blaine could think was how much he would give to have even a tenth of the relationship Kurt must’ve had with his dad, with his mom. It was horrible. But it didn’t stop the feeling, deep down in his gut, from blooming.
A hand landed on his shoulder. Blaine jerked away.

Kurt looked down at him, as if Blaine’s thoughts had summoned him, full of concern. Kurt crouched down and reached out a hand before pulling it back uncertainly. Are you alright? He asked with his hands. Blaine had managed to learn a little sign language with Helen and Kurt’s help, though he was still hopeless with anything beyond basic questions and spelling out names.

“I’m . . . .” Blaine searched for a word, then sighed. “No,” he said. “I’m not.”

If it had been anyone else, he would’ve said he was. But with Kurt, he tried not to pretend anymore. It made things between them hard, at least on Blaine’s side. But it made them so much more interesting that Blaine couldn’t regret it.

Kurt’s worry deepened. What is it? He asked, remembering to stick to basic questions.

Blaine bit his lip. “I wish I had parents like you had,” he blurted out finally. Kurt tense and his lips thinned. Blaine winced. “Not—no, it’s not that—Shit.” Kurt’s look softened a little, which gave Blaine the courage to say, “I just—My dad thinks I’m some nancy little boy who needs to man up, and my mom tries to keep setting me up with girls and is always saying how the music and the “little problem” of being gay are just phases—“

Kurt made the little huffing sound that Blaine had come to realize signified anger. He looked up. Kurt was glaring at a point past his shoulder. Kurt snapped his eyes to Blaine’s after a moment, and Blaine was shocked by the—the anger in Kurt’s face, the anger that wasn’t at him, but for him, and a blaze of warmth erupted in his stomach until he felt, for some inexplicable reason, that he wanted to smile—

He reached out and grabbed Kurt’s hand tightly. Kurt jumped, startled, then relaxed. The anger in his face bled away and he curled his fingers around Blaine’s trustingly. Blaine’s throat went dry.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

Years of people disappointed in him, people angry at him, people never helping him passed before his eyes. He’d always been forced to do it on his own, find his own way, fix his own problems. He’d never had anyone offer to lend a hand or a shoulder to carry the burden. Never. And now, in one day, he had two.

Kurt’s face softened. Blaine wondered how much he’d seen in Blaine’s face, which he’d always been told was so readable, and how much he’d managed to figure out on his own. Kurt was smart - he could put things together.

“You and Helen are really great people,” Blaine continued earnestly. To Blaine’s amusement, Kurt began to flush. “I’m really lucky to be working here. And it means a lot, how much you guys care.”

Kurt waved his free hand in the universal gesture of no problem. He was smiling. Blaine, to his surprise, found that he was too.

-

Blaine hummed absently as he moved boxes around. Helen had requested that he help put new merchandise on the shelves since they were short a hand that day, and Blaine had been more than happy to help since Helen had assigned Kurt the same job. They’d spent the morning re-stocking the shelves, Blaine talking quietly and Kurt texting his responses. Kurt had been more relaxed with him for the past few days. Blaine liked that - a relaxed Kurt joked more, showed more of the person hiding underneath the ice. Blaine had seen the facade Kurt had been wearing since his first day slowly fading away. Kurt smiled more, laughed more. Blaine was delighted by it.

The bell rang and Blaine instinctively looked at the door. His heart froze.

“Well, this looks quaint,” Edmund Anderson announced in his booming voice, looking around critically. “I actually quite like it. Although there’s not much business, is there?” Blaine cringed in embarrassment when he saw Helen turn her head, frowning.

“Dad!” he said loudly, hurrying forward. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kurt’s head snap to the side, fixing on his father. He ignored it. “What’re you doing here?”

“Thought I should see the place you’re spending so much time in, make sure it’s appropriate,” his dad said, completely oblivious to his rudeness. As usual, Blaine thought bitterly.

“Dad,” his hissed under his breath.

“What?” his dad said, adopting the tone that meant he thought Blaine was being unreasonable. “Only the best for my son, Blaine.”

“Dad, that’s Helen, the owner,” Blaine said quietly.

Edmund started over to her. Blaine wished he could grab him back, but then his dad would just make a bigger scene and it would turn out worse.

“Helen, is it?” Edmund boomed, holding out his hand to her. Helen looked startled. Blaine didn’t blame her - his dad was a force to be reckoned with. “Edmund Anderson, Blaine’s father.”
“Oh!” Helen said, taking his hand. Her shocked expression hadn’t faded into warmth, as it usually did upon meeting new people - instead she looked almost icy. “I see. Well, it’s been a pleasure having Blaine work for me.” She glanced over at Blaine, and her expression melted a little bit. “He’s a wonderful boy.”

Edmund laughed. Blaine cringed. He knew that laugh.

“Well,” Edmund said, “wonderful is a bit of an overstatement, isn’t it? I mean, I love him, but he can be a bit of a pansy at times. Gets it from toddling after his mom for a good three years longer than he needed to. Spoiled him. Made him soft. I’ve tried to straighten him out since, but nothing helps. Did he tell you about his singing and dancing nonsense?” Edmund snorted, oblivious or ignoring the cold stare Helen was giving him and the way Blaine was cringing away from him. “Very homo, if you ask me. Of course, that’s right up Blaine’s alley. Likes all that gay shit—“

“Sir,” Helen said, cutting him off. Her voice was like ice. “I believe you’ve said your piece. Now, if you could please move on? I have customers to ring through.”

Edmund looked surprised. “Very well,” he said, seeming to slowly realize that he wouldn’t find a friend or ally in Helen when it came to Blaine. Or anything else, for that matter. “I’ll just leave you to it, then.”

He turned back to Blaine. “Don’t come back late today, Blaine,” he said sternly. “Can’t let you roam around free all the time, you know.”

He turned to leave and caught sight of Kurt. Blaine saw him pause, saw how his head tilted. Blaine’s pulse quickened. Kurt, whatever else he might be, looked delicate, almost feminine, and definitely quite gay. Of course, there were plenty of straight boys who looked like that, but his dad never seemed to realize that and, in this one case, he was correct. Kurt had been standing off to the side, his eyes already on Blaine’s father, and Blaine realized with a sinking sensation that Kurt had heard everything Edmund had said.

Kurt and Blaine’s dad engaged in a staring contest for a long moment. The longer it went on, the more Blaine wanted to intervene, the more anger he felt rising up in him. Not so much anger at Kurt, because he was - and this caused a burst of happiness in Blaine’s stomach - angry on Blaine’s behalf, but furious at his father. What right did he have to look at Kurt and judge him? What right did Edmund Anderson have to judge anyone? Was Edmund Anderson the pinnacle of perfection in the world, that he could sit back and sneer at other’s faults and imperfections and indignities?

Blaine realized he was shaking. He wanted to step forward and block his father’s gaze from the one person who had managed to make him feel worthwhile. He didn’t want his father looking at Kurt, who had lost so much and was recovering, at Kurt who was worth ten of him.

“That one looks like a homo,” Blaine’s dad muttered as he started for the door.

Blaine watched him leave. He had, he realized with a distant sort of shock, never wanted to punch his father in the face so badly.

A hand landed on his shoulder. “That was your father, huh?” Helen said, her voice tight and angry.

Blaine shrugged her hand off. “Ignore him,” he said quietly. “That’s what I do. He just does as he likes even if you try and talk back to him.”

“Spoken from experience?” Helen asked him sharply. She shook her head. “That man--When he said those things about you, I was so close to slapping him in the face, customers be damned. What kind of father says those things about his kid when his kid’s standing right there?!”

“Helen, please--” Blaine half-whispered, almost embarrassed by her passionate defense of him.

“No, Blaine,” Helen snapped. “That man doesn’t deserve to call himself your father. What a loathsome evil little cockroach. Talking about your talent like it’s something to be ashamed of, when I’d give my left arm to play the piano like you do, or the guitar--”

“Helen!” Blaine said. Helen shook herself and looked at him, anger fading a bit at the look on his face. “Please, just leave it alone. He’s been saying that stuff since I came out to him.” And before that too, Blaine thought, though he didn’t tell Helen that.

Blaine caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned to see Kurt coming close. Blaine tensed. Kurt had heard everything - or the important bits at least, judging from his face - and Blaine didn’t want--Well. He didn’t want Kurt to think differently of him, now that he knew about Blaine’s father. Blaine liked being the strong one in their relationship, the one that Kurt could come to for help or advice even. He felt very vulnerable now. Kurt was aware that Blaine’s life wasn’t all peachy-keen - Blaine had told Kurt himself, even - but now he had a first-hand account of that, and that scared Blaine to death--

Kurt’s hand slipped into his, clasping his fingers firmly. Blaine’s breath caught. With his free hand, Kurt signed something to Helen.

Helen squinted. “Kurt, some of those need two hands--Oh wait, no, I think I have it.” Helen shook her head. “He wants you to know that your father is an asshole who doesn’t deserve you and Kurt wanted to kick him in a very painful place after what he said about you. Also, that your talent is amazing and that everything your dad says is a lie. And that he’s sorry.”

Blaine tightened his hand around Kurt’s. It meant more than he could say, that Kurt - and Helen, for that matter- didn’t seem to think any differently of him after seeing all of--that. They still liked him, they felt protective of him even, and they didn’t pity him.

“Thank you,” he said to both of them, meaning it from the bottom of his heart.

Helen grinned at him. Her anger had faded almost completely.

“No problem, kiddo,” she said, ruffling Blaine’s hair. Blaine wanted to protest - his hair was wild enough when it wasn’t ruffled - but the action carried so much fondness in it that he lost any motivation he had to tell her to stop. “Now, you kid’s get back to work. Those books won’t put themselves on the shelves.”

Kurt tugged Blaine back to the bookshelves by their joined hands.

-

“So, hobbit,” Blaine looked up, unsurprised to see Santana staring down at him. No one else in Kurt’s group of friends called him hobbit. “What’s with the pussy-footing around, hm?”

Blaine raised an eyebrow. “Pussy-footing?” he asked, a little amused at her candor. Santana, he had learned from their short acquaintance, got right to the point whenever she could.

Santana snorted. “You know what I mean. Everyone with two eyes and a brain cell can tell that you’re hot for Hummel.” Blaine stared at her, but Santana didn’t seem to notice. “Well, I’m sick of your lovelorn sighs and cow eyes across the room - just get to it already!”

Blaine’s shock faded a little bit and he frowned at her. “Pot calling the kettle black,” he said mildly, glancing over where Brittany stood, browsing through books.

Santana followed his gaze, then snapped her eyes back. Blaine almost thought she was blushing. “What’re you talking about, short stuff?” she snarled.

Blaine shrugged. “Just that it’s obvious you like her, and that either she doesn’t know or she doesn’t feel the same way.”

Santana was tense and she was glaring at Blaine like he’d just called her a particularly bad name. Blaine sighed. Touchy subject, obviously, he thought.

“Look, Santana, I don’t care if you like Brittany or not,” he said tiredly. “She seems nice and you seem nice, and I’m sure you deserve each other. I just—I appreciate that you’re concerned for Kurt, but it’s difficult for me to take your threats seriously when I know that you’re in the same boat I am, and you’re dealing with it in a very similar way.”

Santana had relaxed a little bit. She still looked wary, but the death threat in her eyes was gone. “Look, shortie,” she said. “I—“ she shook her head. “I like Brittany. But she’s with Artie and she won’t leave him for me. Even though she apparently loves me.” She sounded bitter. Blaine couldn’t blame her.

“That’s horrible,” he said. He meant it.

Blaine looked over at Brittany. She’d seemed sweet, if a bit dense, the few times that he’d talked to her. He could see why Santana would love her. And Blaine couldn’t help but admire that she didn’t want to hurt Artie’s feelings by breaking up with him for Santana, even if he didn’t particularly agree with it. Blaine wondered how Artie felt about it all, if he even knew. He looked back over at Santana.

“You’ve told her how you feel?” he asked.

Santana pursed her lips. “Yes,” she said. “But she doesn’t want to be with me.”

Blaine shook his head. “Maybe she does. Maybe you have to show her why she should want to be with you.”

Santana was staring at him. “What’re you saying exactly, hobbit?” She poked him in the shoulder. “We’re not doing that stupid faux-dating thing to make her jealous. I don’t date short boys with bushy eyebrows, got it?”

Blaine very consciously did not reach up to touch his eyebrows. “That you need to convince her,” he said evenly. “You need to show her how much you want her. And maybe she’ll realize that she wants you more than she wants Artie.”

Santana’s eyes were still narrow, but she looked more thoughtful than angry now. Then, slowly, she smiled. “I will if you will, short stuff.”

Blaine huffed. “I’m not telling Kurt how I feel about him,” he said. “He’s been through too much already, alright, and I don’t want to—“ approach him when he’s vulnerable. Hurt him. Scare him away. Lose his friendship.

Santana’s face softened, just a bit. “Look, shortie, I get that Kurt’s—hurt, or whatever, right now. But Kurt likes all that romantic shit, and Berry was right about one thing—having a boyfriend will probably cheer him up more than all of us hovering over him like mother hens.”

Blaine opened his mouth, the closed it. “What?” he asked, completely nonplussed.

Santana rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. “Tell him. Do it in a song, or whatever, like you like to do so much.”

Blaine looked over at Kurt, who was stacking new books on the shelves. He watched the arc of Kurt’s hand, the way he bent his head dutifully over his boxes, the edge of his mouth as it curved into a smile. Blaine, with a sudden, aching desire, wanted to kiss that corner of mouth. He wanted to drag Kurt behind the shelves and tell him over and over that he wanted him, liked him, was maybe even falling in love with him. But words were—scary things. Blaine wasn’t any good with them. He was much better with—

Singing, he thought. Slowly, he smiled. He even had the perfect song to sing.

He looked back at Santana. “If I do this, you’re doing it with me,” he said, determined. Santana blinked at him, but Blaine was already moving to pick up his guitar. “You know “One and Only,” by Adele?” he asked, not looking at her.

Santana was silent for a long moment before she snorted. “Of course, short stuff,” she said. “Adele is flawless.”

She came up to stand by Blaine’s side. Blaine glanced over at her. Her hands were shaking. He almost asked her if she wanted to back off and not do it, but he took one look at the determined expression on her face, the way her eyes were focused on Brittany, and decided against it. She wanted to do this. She just needed to summon her courage, that was all.

Blaine touched her hand. “Courage,” he murmured to her.

Santana laughed. It was a little shaky, but it was full of amusement. “I get it,” she said.

“You want the first verse, or should I?” he asked her, tuning up. He saw Kurt’s head turning.
Santana smiled. “You go first, I’ll do the second verse. We each get a chorus and then we end together, hm?” she asked.

Blaine smiled and started the opening chords. “Sounds good to me,” he muttered. “Good luck.”
Santana grinned at him. Blaine saw Kurt staring at them with narrowed eyes and, with a deep breath, turned to face him, meeting his gaze. Out of the corner of his eye, Blaine saw Brittany turning around to face them as well.

“You’ve been on my mind
I grow fonder every day,
Lose myself in time just thinking of your face
God only knows why it's taking me so long
To let my doubts go

You're the only one that I want
I don't know why I'm scared, I've been here before
Every feeling, every word, I've imagined it all,
You never know if you never try to forget your past
And simply be mine.”

Kurt’s eyes were wide and shocked, and Blaine wondered what was running through his mind. He kept singing though. He’d come too far to stop now, and, he reminded himself, Santana needed him to keep going.

“I dare you to let me be your, your one and only
Promise I'm worth it to hold in your arms
So come on and give me the chance
To prove that I'm the one who can
Walk that mile
Until the end starts.”

Blaine turned a little bit and nodded and Santana stepped forward. Blaine drifted backwards, letting Santana take the spotlight. He watched as she moved forward until she was right in front of Brittany, who was staring at her, wide-eyed. Blaine smiled a little bit.

“Have I been on your mind?
You hang on every word I say, lose yourself in time
At the mention of my name, will I ever know
How it feels to hold you close

And have you tell me which ever road I chose you'll go
I don't know why I'm scared, I've been here before
Every feeling every word, I've imagined it all,
You never know if you never tried to forgive your past
And simply be mine.”

With every word she sang, Santana’s confidence seemed to grow. She was smiling now, and she held out her hands for Brittany to take, which Brittany did without hesitation. Brittany looked overjoyed. Her smile was as wide and bright as Santana’s. Blaine couldn’t help grinning at their happiness.

“I dare you to let me be your, your one and only
I promise I'm worthy to hold in your arms
So come on and give me the chance
To prove that I'm the one who can
Walk that mile
Until the end starts.”

Santana turned her head towards Blaine. She tilted her heads towards Kurt. Go sing to him, she was telling him silently. Blaine hesitated for a moment, the moved forward until he was right in front of Kurt. Kurt’s hands were curled around the book he’d been about to put away, the knuckles white. His eyes were huge and shocked. Blaine smiled at him gently.

“I know it ain't easy
Giving up your heart
I know it ain't easy
Giving up your heart.”

Santana joined in with him, and Blaine immediately switched the harmony, letting her take reign on the melody.

“I know it ain't easy, giving up your heart
I know it ain't easy, giving up your heart
I know it ain't easy
Giving up your heart.”

Blaine caught Santana’s eye and smiled at her. From her place across the store, her hand safely tucked into Brittany’s, she grinned back.

“I dare you to let me be your, your one and only
I promise I'm worth it to hold in your arms
So come on and give me the chance
To prove I'm the one who can
Walk that mile until the end starts

Come and give me the chance
To prove that I'm the one who can
Walk that mile until the end starts.”

Blaine and Santana drifted off together. Blaine could hear clapping from some of the other customers, as well as whispers, but he ignored them. He kept his eyes on Kurt, whose shocked look had faded into hesitation.

“Kurt,” he said quietly. “I know that this is a bad time for you, but I thought you should know that I like you. As more than a friend.”

Kurt’s mouth dropped open again. Blaine smiled a little.

“There’s a time in your life when you look at a person and think, ‘oh, there you are, I’ve been looking for you forever.’ You are that person for me. You move me, Kurt. And I want nothing more than to spend more time with you, if you’d let me.”

Kurt was still gaping at him. Blaine wanted very badly to kiss him, but he was very conscious of the customers still around them, and Helen, who was at the register, watching them. Instead he reached out and took Kurt’s hand in his. Kurt’s fingers curled around his. Blaine took that as a good sign.

“You can have all the time you need to answer if you’d like to be with me,” he said, although he was hoping rather desperately that Kurt wouldn’t take very long at all. “I just—I wanted you to know.”

Kurt’s shocked look had softened. He looked down at their clasped hands and bit his lip uncertainly. He pulled his hand away from Blaine’s and held up a finger. Wait a moment, he was saying, He pulled out his phone and quickly sent something to Blaine.

Blaine’s heart was beating fast as he opened the text.

Blaine, I need some time. I think I like you, but I need time to think. Is that alright?
Blaine’s heart lept. He thinks he likes me, he thought dazedly. He’s not rejecting me! He just needs time! He grinned.

“Of course that’s alright!” he cried. “Of course, Kurt. Just—let me know when you want to tell me. And . . . No matter what, we’re still friends, alright?”

Kurt nodded, smiling hesitantly. He gestured to the stacks of books by his side. Back to work, he was saying. Blaine nodded and walked away, still smiling.

He noticed Santana and Brittany in a corner, talking quietly. Their heads were bent close together and they were smiling. Blaine’s heart warmed even further. It looked like things had gone fairly well there. He was glad. Santana was nice, in her own special way, and she deserved to be happy. Blaine felt a moment’s pity for Artie, who would undoubtedly be the hurt party in the triangle, but he hoped Artie could find someone else to be happy with. It wasn’t that he didn’t want Artie to be happy, it was that he’d seen Santana’s face while she was looking at Brittany, and Blaine doubted that Artie could measure up to that depth of affection and love.
Santana caught his eye and pulled away from Brittany for a moment, sending a smirk his way. Blaine inclined his head and her smirk widened. She whispered something to Brittany, who then jumped up and down excitedly.

Blaine smiled and headed back to the music corner, his heart lighter than it had been in ages.

-

“Kurt” Blaine said, hurrying forward when he saw Kurt leaving the shop. Kurt jumped a little, turning towards him with a raised eyebrow. “Do you want a ride home? Helen told me that your car is having problems—“

Kurt tensed. He stared at Blaine for a long time, then shrugged and nodded. Blaine relaxed a little. He’d also heard from Helen that Kurt’s car had been a present from Kurt’s dad before he died. He’d thought Kurt might be touchy about Blaine bringing up how it apparently was in desperate need of repair. He was glad that Kurt was still comfortable driving with him after yesterday as well - a sign that Kurt still considered him a friend, even if he wasn’t sure how deep his feelings ran. Blaine couldn’t help the small hopefulness that rose as Kurt moved over to his car - maybe Kurt would take the drive as an opportunity to confess his feelings.

Blaine’s car was small but neat - a gift from his father was he passed his driving test. Blaine slid into the driver’s seat while Kurt carefully climbed in next to him. It was weird seeing Kurt in his car - it was like they didn’t mix, somehow.

He started the car and winced as his CD player starting blaring loudly. “--and remembered our own land, and what we lived for.” Blaine turned it down.

“Mumford and Sons,” he told Kurt, who was looking at the CD player with interest. “A friend of mine introduced them to me.” Thad, actually, had shoved Sigh No More into Blaine’s hands before summer and told him that he was going to be singing at least one of their songs for Sectionals when he came back. Blaine had been a little unnerved by the intent gleam in Thad’s eyes, but he’d gone along with it.

“And there will come a time, you see, with no more tears
And love will not break your heart, but dismiss your fears.
Get over your hill and see what you find there.
With grace in your heart, and flowers in your hair.”

Kurt was listening intently. Blaine watched him from the corner of his eye, amused by the way Kurt’s head bobbed slightly in time with the music, and the way his brow furrowed at a certain melody. He wondered what Kurt would make of the rest of his music collection. He wanted to introduce Kurt to a new artist or song just to see the way he bit his lip thoughtfully.

“Do you like it?” Blaine asked, as the music softened a little. Kurt nodded sharply, his expression still focused. “You’re welcome to borrow it, if you like.”

Kurt smiled at him. Blaine had come to realize that Kurt had a few different smiles - the confident fake ones he gave customers or people he didn’t like, the huge grin when he wore when he was actually amused or laughing and the small, shy ones that he seemed to only give to Blaine. Blaine was coming to realize that there was very little that he wouldn’t do to win those smiles out of Kurt.

The song changed. Blaine returned his attention to the road, though he kept looking at Kurt from the corner of his eye. Kurt had tilted his head back so it was resting against the headrest and his eyes were closed. The only sign that he was still listening closely was the way his head moved in time to the music. Blaine couldn’t help smiling. Kurt looked relaxed and happy. It made Blaine’s heart warm.

A screech to his left caught Blaine’s attention and he turned just in time to see a huge truck hurtling spinning towards them. For a moment, Blaine could only stare. Then the car was upon them, and Blaine turned to see Kurt staring at it, his eyes wide and terrified, his hand grappling around the seat, searching, Blaine realized, for Blaine’s hand, and Blaine reached out to grasp it in his own as—

CRASH.

Blaine felt metal folding around his body, heard air bags popping out, and felt pain. Then he knew no more.

-

Kurt woke to beeping and pain. He could hear voices above him, shouting something in a language he couldn’t understand. Slowly, he opened his eyes. Colors blurred in front of him, making shapes seem hazy and out-of-focus. He tried to take a breath and coughed heavily. Pain erupted in his chest.

One of the blobs hovering above him leaned over him. Kurt knew they were saying something to him, but their words weren’t understandable with the blood rushing in his ears and the pounding headache in his temple. He tried to gasp out a word, anything, but something stopped him. No talking, he thought, though he couldn’t remember why.

Slowly, the rushing in his ears dissipated. He could start to make out words.
“Keep him down!” one of the blobs was saying. “He can’t aggravate his injuries—“

“What about the other one? He’s not responding—“

The other one? Kurt thought, his brain moving too sluggishly to make a connection. Then, suddenly— Blaine! He struggled to sit up. Blaine had been sitting closer to where the truck hit them, he wasn’t responding, what had happened to him—

“Keep him down!”

No! Kurt thought, pushing their hands away. No, I need to see if he’s alright! Blaine!

“No, Mr. Hummel, listen to me, you can’t sit up! I understand you’re worried about your friend—“
Kurt didn’t listen to the person talking to him. They were trying to sound soothing, but failing miserably. Pain was exploding up his side, but he ignored it and managed to swing himself up into a sitting position. Stars were bursting behind his eyes and colors and shapes still blurred, but he could see well enough that he could make out the person lying opposite of him. Blaine, he thought, panic rising in his throat. Blaine was covered in blood and he wasn’t moving. No.

He pushed off the hands pushing him back down and stood. He regretted it a moment later as his knees buckled and he fell to the floor. Hands grabbed him, forcing him back into an upright position and trying to lead him back, away from Blaine. Kurt pulled forward, trying to resist. He was too weak.

“For fuck’s sake, let him make sure his friend’s alright,” said one of the people, a woman. “He’s not in critical condition, he can handle standing for a short period of time. Just make sure he stays upright.”

“But—“

“He’s not going to go easily until you do,” said the woman. “Just do it.”

Kurt pulled forward eagerly and met no resistance. Hands helped him to Blaine’s side. He stared down at Blaine’s face, covered in bloods and cuts, his eyes closed, his face lifeless. He could feel tears gathering in the back of his eyes. Blaine wasn’t allowed to die. Blaine had to stay alive, stay with Kurt, not leave him like every person Kurt had loved. He wasn’t allowed to die.

Come back to me, Kurt begged inside of his head. Please don’t leave me. Please. Blaine didn’t respond. Kurt stared at his bloodied face. I can’t let him go without letting him hear my voice, at least once, he told himself. And maybe, just maybe--

Kurt wet his lips. Then, carefully, he said, “Blaine.” His voice was croaky and thin from under-use. Kurt shoved his panic down, the little voice in the back of his head that said, why are you talking, you’re not supposed to talk, you’re not worthy— “Blaine, please,” he whispered. His voice cracked. “You can’t leave me.” Blaine didn’t open his eyes. Kurt reached out and grasped his hand. His fingers slipped in the blood running down Blaine’s wrist. “You can’t leave me,” Kurt said fiercely, the words running out more easily now that the dam had been opened. “Did you hear me, Blaine Anderson? You aren’t allowed to die.”

For one long moment, Blaine was still. Kurt’s heart dropped. Why didn’t it work? He thought. It’s supposed to work. It hadn’t worked on his dad either, and his dad had—had left, and Blaine wasn’t supposed to do that—

“Pull him back,” said one of the people behind him, holding him up. Kurt struggled against their hands as they tried to pull him away.

“No!” he cried. “No, he can’t leave me, he can’t, he can’t, Blaine—“

“Calm down!” said the authoritative female voice from before. A cool hand rested on his shoulder, shoving him down onto a bed. “He’s fine! Your friend is fine! Getting yourself into a tizzy isn’t going to help him, and it’s certainly not going to help you! Lay down!”

Kurt wanted to protest, to tell the strange woman that the best thing that had ever happened to him was lying opposite of him, covered in blood and possibly dying. He wanted to tell her that if Blaine died, he didn’t know what he would do with himself, and that it would make his grief for his father look like child’s play in comparison. But the words were disappearing as quickly as they’d come, and the headache from earlier was throbbing at his temples, making it hard to think.

“Just lay down, Kurt, we’ll be at the hospital soon enough. Your friend will be fine.”

“Blaine,” Kurt said as his vision started to turn black at the edges. “His name’s Blaine.”

He thought he felt her hand on his head, stroking his head, as he passed out.

-

“Kurt, honey, I don’t know if you can hear me or not, but please, please wake up.” Kurt could hear the person - a woman, he thought he knew her - talking to him. Her voice sounded distant, as if he was underwater. He could open his eyes and see who she was, Kurt thought, but that sounded too difficult. It was easier to just lay there, drifting in the darkness.

“Kurt, kid, you have to have the worse luck on the entire planet. Of course you would get into one of the largest car pile-ups of the summer. What’s next? Drowned? Buried in an avalanche in the middle of summer? Struck by lightning?” She laughed. It sounded more like a sob. “I had no idea that taking you in would mean I’d go gray before I turned forty.”

Kurt felt a warm hand curl around his own. For a moment, he considered curling his fingers around the woman’s, if only to show how sorry he was for the trouble he’d caused. He absently wondered what he had done that was so troublesome besides, apparently, being involved in a car accident.

“The doctors have told me you’ll be fine, but that doesn’t stop me from worrying,” she said. “I mean, look what happened to your dad. And what that vile doctor did to you afterwards—I don’t trust doctors much anymore, kiddo. I just hope they’re right in your case. And in Blaine’s.”

Blaine, Kurt thought dreamily. Who was Blaine? Images started drifting back to him. Warm dark eyes, a smile with hints of teeth, the angle of a sharp jawline, friendship, warmth—

Love.

Blaine.

Kurt shot up, shaken out of his dream-like state as swiftly as if someone had poured ice-cold water over his head. Blaine, how could he have forgotten Blaine? Blaine, who had been—covered in blood the last time Kurt had seen him, and what if, what if--

“How is he?” Kurt asked Helen, who was sitting by his bedside, staring at him in shock. “Is he alright? Have they fixed him? Has he woken up yet? Helen? Answer me, goddamnit, he’s still—“ alive, isn’t he? Kurt couldn’t bare to say it aloud.

“You’re talking,” Helen whispered, staring at him as if she was seeing a ghost. “You’re—Kurt, you’re talking!”

Kurt lifted a hand to his mouth. In his anxiety, he hadn’t even realized that the words had been coming out of his mouth instead of being written down on paper. He stared at Helen. He remembered, with sudden clarity, seeing Blaine covered in blood in what must have been an ambulance. Blaine had—He’d drawn the words out of him.

“I’m talking,” Kurt whispered.

He’d lived so long without words that the shape of them on his mouth felt strange, otherwordly. His throat was aching.

“Where’s Blaine?” he asked.

“Kurt, you’re talking,” Helen said, still amazed. “I can’t—how did—“

“Helen,” Kurt said, his voice cracking with stress. “Where’s Blaine?”

Helen blinked, then straightened, surprise melting away in the face of Kurt’s urgency. “Kurt, he just got out of surgery—“

Kurt struggled to get his feet off the side of the bed. Pain erupted down his side. Helen took him by the shoulders and forced him back into bed, glaring all the while.

“And so have you! Just calm down! Blaine’s fine, he’s going to be fine. There were some internal injuries they had to sort out, but he came out of it okay. And trying to go see him now will just make you worse and make him feel horrible about it, alright?”

Kurt bit his lip. The desire to see Blaine was like a physical ache, but Helen was making sense. Reluctantly, he settled back into the pillows.

“What happened?” he asked, his voice little more than a croak.

“A truck driver lost control of his vehicle and spun,” Helen told him, her face darkening. “He hit you first, and then Blaine’s car crashed into the one behind it, which crashed into the one behind it, and so on. It turned into a good seven car pile-up by the end of it. You boys got very lucky - one of the people involved died on impact and the rest are all in the hospital with you. I’ve heard that some of them are still in surgery and the doctors don’t know if they’ll survive.”

Kurt realized suddenly just how close he’d come to death - and not only him, but Blaine. It made him antsy, and the itch to go see Blaine increased.

“Can’t I see him?” Kurt asked before he could stop himself.

Helen’s eyes softened and she took his head. “Kurt, I know you’re practically in love with that boy,” Kurt’s face flamed, “but I really think you should wait.” She looked at Kurt’s face. “If you want, I could ask the doctors if they could put you in the same room? They said they’ve got some space in here . . . .”

Kurt relaxed a little bit. “You would?” he asked.

Helen stroked his hand comfortingly. “Of course, sweetheart. Let me just go see if the doctor’s nearby and I’ll ask them now.” She stood without releasing Kurt’s hand, paused for a moment, then slowly lowered it to the bed covers as if she didn’t want to let it go. “I’ll be right back,” she reminded him, before reluctantly leaving the room.

Kurt sat there for a long moment, staring at the walls. Whenever he tried to close his eyes, Blaine’s bloodied face in front of his eyes and his heart jumped in his throat. Blaine had been hurt, so hurt, and Kurt couldn’t stand it—

Helen re-entered the room. A doctor followed her. Kurt tensed at the sight of the long white coat, memories returning to him in a flash of screaming, needles, slowly fading into unconsciousness— He curled in on himself and tried to breathe evenly. He kept as much of his skin underneath his blanket as he could, and watched the doctor suspiciously as she crossed the floor. Kurt didn’t like or trust doctors much anymore either.

“This is Doctor Shang,” Helen said, eyeing his tense form. She knew that he didn’t like doctors. “She came with in the ambulance with you.”

Kurt suddenly remembered a female voice ordering him to sit down, to let the other nurses let him go to Blaine, to calm down. He relaxed a little, meeting her stern brown eyes. She’d let him go to Blaine when the others hadn’t wanted him to - that alone made him trust her more than he trusted any other doctor. And she looked kind - there were laugh lines around her generous mouth, and she had warm eyes. She reminded him of Helen a little and he glanced over at her. Kurt frowned when he saw Helen watching the doctor closely. It wasn’t a look of distrust necessarily—

“Kurt,” the doctor said, breaking his train of thought. Kurt looked away from Helen and meet Doctor Shang’s eyes. “I’d be more than happy to move Blaine into your room. It may not be for a few hours or so - he’s currently in intensive care and we don’t want to upset him. By the end of the day, he should be fine to be moved, so we’ll place him in your room. That sound alright to you?”

Kurt relaxed further. “Thank you,” he said evenly. “It means a lot to me.” More than you know probably, he thought.

Doctor Shang smiled at him. She suddenly looked twenty years younger. “It’s no problem at all, Kurt,” she said warmly. “And anyways, if what your aunt is saying is true, we wouldn’t have been able to keep you two apart for long anyways.” Her smile faded a little. “Listen, Kurt, I understand your anxiety, but you absolutely must not go try standing until tomorrow, alright? When we were in the ambulance, you were able to, but after the surgery you’re at a delicate stage, and you could easily make things worse by rushing the process. Blaine will be in by tonight at the very latest, I promise. Alright?” She waited until Kurt nodded and turned to Helen. Kurt watched as Helen, of all things, blushed. What? He thought. “If that’s all?” Helen nodded. “Alright. I’ll see you two later.”

She swept out of the room. Helen watched her go and Kurt watched Helen.

“Helen?” Kurt asked, when Helen kept staring at the door. Helen jumped and turned to him. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” Helen muttered hurriedly. “Just a bit off. That can happen when your nephew nearly gets himself killed,” she added, trying for funny, but falling a bit flat.

“Helen?” Kurt said, reaching for her hand. She immediately clasped it in her own, her eyes troubled. “You’re sure you’re alright?”

She nodded and tried a smile. “Just tired,” she said quietly, her hand tightening around his. “Why don’t you get some rest, Kurt? Doctor Shang recommended it.”

Kurt watched her for a long moment, then sighed, settling back into his pillows until he was lying down. “Alright,” he murmured, already feeling his eyelids droop. “Wake me up when Blaine gets here?” he muttered, his eyes falling close.

“Of course,” he heard Helen say as he slowly drifted off. Then he knew no more.

-

When Kurt woke up again, Blaine was sleeping in the bed next to his.

Kurt stared at Blaine’s peaceful face for a long time. He kept seeing blood on it, even though it was clean now, and it made his stomach tight with anxiety. He never wanted to see Blaine that way again, he realized. He never wanted to worry if Blaine was going to make it out alive, or if Blaine was still going to be in his life anymore. Kurt didn’t want Blaine to leave him.

Kurt thought about it. Blaine’s voice was amazing - Kurt admired his ability to throw himself into music, the way he could twist music to his own voice and style without breaking a sweat. He liked Blaine’s laugh and his sense of humor, and how he was so bad at crossword puzzles and talking about his feelings, even though his face was an open book. He liked that Blaine was nice to the cats and held doors open for women and the elderly and people with babies. He hated how Blaine’s father casually mistreated him, how Blaine didn’t seem to have a lot of self-confidence because he’d never been given reason to develop it. He never wanted Blaine to be hurt by his father, or by an accident, or by anyone—

He was in love with Blaine.

Kurt sat on that thought for a while. Being in love was so messy and complicated and difficult. Did he want to dive into that with Blaine? They were from different schools and different worlds, and at the end of the summer they’d be going back to those worlds. They were, Kurt realized with a bit of a smile, from rival glee clubs - that was, of course, only true if Kurt decided to re-join New Directions in the fall. If they started a relationship, could it withstand that?

Kurt remembered Blaine’s earnest expression as he told Kurt he liked him, the warmth in his eyes as he sang to him. He wanted that, more than anything. He hadn’t wanted that since—
Kurt turned his eyes away from Blaine’s face. Sine his dad had—

Just say it, he thought sternly. His chest was tight, either with panic or misery, and Kurt bit his lip.

“Since dad died,” he whispered aloud. “Burt Hummel, my father—he’s dead.”

Kurt curled in on himself, burying his face in his pillow. It wasn’t that he hadn’t known or realized his father was gone - it was that he’d buried the feelings so deeply for so long that looking at them again now hurt more than it had the first time. It was like he was losing his dad all over again, only this time it was ten times worse. Kurt could feel the tears falling, the pillow absorbing them and growing damp. He was so absorbed in his grief, that he didn’t even notice that Helen had entered the room until he felt her hand on his head, her voice muttering comforts in his ear. Kurt turned immediately turned and fell into her arms.

“Oh, Kurt,” she murmured into his ear. “Kurt, honey, what is it, what’s happened—“
Kurt didn’t say anything, just burrowed his head into her shoulder. She smelled warm and like home and that alone made Kurt calm down a little. His tears started to abate, and he pulled away from Helen, a little ashamed at the intensity of his reaction.

“Sorry,” he muttered, rubbing at his eyes.

Helen watched him worriedly. “What brought that on?” she asked, taking Kurt’s hand in her own.
Kurt shook his head, trying to smile. From the way Helen’s worried frown deepened, he gathered that he hadn’t been very successful. “It just all hit me at once, I guess,” he said quietly.

“The accident?” Helen asked. She stole a look at the other bed. “Blaine?”

“And dad,” Kurt told her. Helen’s compassionate expression deepened. “I guess it just brought all of that back to mind, being back in the hospital.”

Helen hesitated, then asked, “Kurt, why are you talking again? Is it because of the accident?”
Kurt smiled a little. He felt better after the tears, as if they’d somehow washed away his bad feelings and bad memories.

“I like Blaine,” he told Helen calmly, “as more than a friend.”

Helen smiled. “I thought you might,” she told him quietly. “I’ve known about him for weeks, but you’re harder to read Kurt.”

Kurt thought about Finn and how obvious he’d been. He supposed that the events of the past year had caused him to be closed off, to reveal less of himself than he usually did.

“I woke up in the ambulance,” he continued, “and I saw Blaine across from me. He looked—horrible. He was covered in blood, cuts and bruises everywhere . . . I thought he was going to die. And I couldn’t let him do that without trying to call him back at least once. So I said his name. And I realized that talking was only hard because I let it be.”

Helen’s eyes were a bit glassy as she gripped Kurt’s hand tightly. “I’m so proud of you, Kurt,” she said fiercely. “I know how hard this time has been for you, and for you to pull yourself out of that—“

Kurt shook his head. “Blaine helped,” he said. He looked over at Blaine’s sleeping face with a fond smile. “Probably more than he thinks he did.”

Helen smile dimmed a little. “His father’s been trying to see him,” she told Kurt quietly. Kurt tensed. “He wasn’t happy about Blaine being put in here. He doesn’t seem to want Blaine around you.”

Kurt’s eyes narrowed. “Well, Blaine’s father doesn’t seem to understand his son in the slightest, so I don’t really give a damn what he wants or doesn’t want,” he said, quiet but intense.

He thought Helen was going to scold him, but to his surprise, she grinned. “Thatta boy,” she said. “That man needs a wake-up call, and I can’t think of anyone better to give it to him than you.”

Kurt smiled back at her. “Is he outside?” he asked.

Helen nodded. “Doctor Shang didn’t let him visit after he yelled at one of the nurses when Blaine was moved into your room.”

“Tell him he can come in,” Kurt told her. “We need to have a talk.”

Helen nodded. “If you’re sure you want to do it now, kiddo.”

“Might as well get this over with,” Kurt said grimly.

Helen rose and patted his head. “I’ll be right back,” she promised, then left.

Kurt took a deep breath, mentally preparing himself. It’d been a long time since he’d defended himself - or, in this case, someone he cared about - with the strength of his words alone. And from what he’d seen of Blaine’s father, he was quite pig-headed. He would need all the strength he could get for this confrontation.

Blaine’s father strode into the room with a bang, Helen following after him quickly.

“It’s about time,” he snarled at Kurt, going to Blaine’s side. “My kid gets in a car crash and I’m not allowed to see him? What kind of messed-up bullshit is that?”

“Maybe if you hadn’t shouted at one of the nurses, the doctor would have trusted your temper around your son,” Helen said sharply, looking annoyed.

Blaine’s father glared at her. “I was protesting that they had moved my son for no better reason that his little homo friend wanted someone to hold his hand!” he half-yelled. “Any father would—“

“Get over themselves and realize that they’re doing a pretty horrible parenting job,” Kurt interrupted calmly.

Blaine’s father froze. Then, slowly, he turned to Kurt. “What did you just say?” he asked, almost dangerously soft.

Kurt glared at him. “I said, Blaine deserves a better father than you.”

“You can’t talk to me like that, boy,” Blaine’s father said. “Not only am I Blaine’s father, I’m Edmund Anderson. I have more money or power than you could dream of—“

“And yet, you can’t even raise a child,” Kurt said chidingly. “How depressing for you.” Edmund stared at him, apparently too angry to even speak. “Listen to me, Edmund Anderson,” he said the name as mockingly as he could. “See that boy on the bed? That’s your son. Your gay, singing, musically-driven son. What you can’t seem to quite grasp is that it shouldn’t matter to you that he’s gay or that he likes singing and dancing or that he’s not as invested in sports or politics as you are—the only thing that should matter is that he’s your son. He should get every inch of your love just for that fact alone - but you’ve been withholding because of all those unimportant details.”

“Unimportant?!” Edmund sputtered. “He’s—“

“Amazing,” Kurt finished for him. “He’s kind, he’s talented, he’s smart, and he’s funny. Blaine is an amazing person. I’d give you some credit, but I know you don’t deserve any. Despite your shame of him, despite the way you slander him and rag on him, he’s turned out to be a wonderful human being, a person any parent should be proud of calling son. What I don’t understand is why you refuse to see that.”

Edmund stared at him for a long time. “What are you to my son?” he asked finally, suspiciously.
Kurt held his chin up. “I love him,” he said, then sneered, putting as much mockery into as he could. “Even if you obviously don’t.”

“How dare you!” Edmund screamed. Kurt jerked back, stunned by the intensity of the reaction. “Of course I love my son! But do you know—“ He cut himself off, turning his head.

Kurt leaned forward curiously. “Do I know what?” he asked.

Edmund shook his head. “All of his damn quirks will get him killed one day,” he said, calmer now. The redness in his face was fading. “The singing, the dancing, liking boys—you think I don’t know what people think of men who do those things? I know better than most. That’s why I sent him to Dalton.” He turned to face Kurt. Kurt was stunned to see tears in his eyes. “My son is going to have a tormented life because of all this. How on earth can I be happy about that? How can I condone that? I had hoped that if I spoke out against it, if I stopped him from doing it—But he just ignores me! He keeps on throwing his peculiarities in other people’s faces and it’s going to get him hurt one day—“

Ah, Kurt thought, finally understanding. Edmund Anderson was very much like Finn. He thought that since they lived in the straight man’s world, they had to play by the straight man’s rules. They thought that gays brought too much attention to themselves. They had gay friends, gay sons, gay almost-brothers, and they loved and cared for them, sure, but that love and care backfired, because it meant that they thought they had to protect them by stopping their friends and sons and almost-brothers from being gay. They thought that it would get them hurt, and that it would somehow be easier for them to abandon who they were, to lie to themselves, to turn straight and take the easy path. People like Finn and Edmund had their heart in the right place, but they went about showing their protectiveness in the completely wrong way.

“You’re stupid,” Kurt told Edmund. Edmund jerked, staring at him. “Your son needs you to be there for him, to help him.” His own father’s face flashed before his eyes, the look of resigned affection in his eyes as he’d said, I know, and had to bit back tears. What would Burt do? “He doesn’t need you to make him stuff his sexuality back into a box, as if he could. He needs you to look out for him when people bully him, to be there for him when he needs someone to talk to. He just wants you to love him, Mr. Anderson. I’m sorry that you can’t see that.”

Edmund glared at him. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he spat defensively. “You’re just some boy with delusions of a romance with my son—“

“He’s right, dad.”

Kurt’s heart leapt into his throat. He hadn’t noticed that Blaine had woken up. Hesitantly, he met Blaine’s eyes. They were very warm, though a little scared. Kurt wondered how much Blaine had heard, and felt the tips of his ears flush. He didn’t mind Blaine knowing that he’d defended him, but he remembered all the things he’d said—I love him—and the flush deepened. We’ll talk about it after this, Kurt promised silently, leaning back into his pillows.

“Blaine?” Edmund said, reaching to take his son’s hand. Blaine drew away from him. “Are you alright? Do you need me to call the doctor?“

“Dad, I want you to listen to me,” Blaine said. His voice was thin but steady. Kurt could see that his hands were shaking. He longed to go over to him, but one look at Blaine’s face told Kurt that he needed to face this dragon on his own. And besides, Kurt thought with a wry smile, he didn’t think he was supposed to walk yet, and the last thing he wanted to do was get on the bad side of Doctor Shang, who was a bit intimidating despite her kind eyes. He glanced over at Helen, who was watching the proceedings from the corner of the room. Her eyes were narrow and intense on the back of Edmund’s head, and Kurt was content to know that she’d intervene if it looked like it was going to get ugly.

“What, Blaine?” Edmund said, sounding more irritated with his injured son than he needed to be. “I was just trying to—“

“Dad, I appreciate what you’re trying to do for me,” Blaine continued, as if he hadn’t heard Edmund speaking. Kurt approved of the tactic. “But Kurt’s right. It’s not what I need from you.” Blaine’s voice shook slightly.

“Blaine, you don’t know what you’re saying—“ Edmund tried.

“Yes, I do!” Blaine cried, sitting up a little. Kurt saw how he winced at the motion and bit his lip. He almost wished Blaine hadn’t woken up - undoubtedly this was the last thing he needed right after surgery. “I know what I’m saying, and I know what I want!” He sighed. “Dad, I knew when I realized my sexuality that my life was going to be hard. But I think I’m strong enough to handle it. And I don’t want to lie about who I am or what I like. I can’t do that.”

“But your life could be so much easier, Blaine,” Edmund said. Kurt eyed him. His anger had faded into a form of desperation. Kurt almost felt sorry for him.

Blaine shook his head. “I know it won’t be easy,” he said quietly. “But I’d rather be true to myself than take the easy road.” Kurt had never felt prouder of him. Blaine bit his lip. “And,” he said hesitantly, “I would appreciate it if you could take that hard road with me, instead of trying to put me back on the easy one.”

Edmund stared at his son, apparently at a loss. Kurt wondered if this would be a turning point for him, or if he’d assume that Blaine had been addled by the accident and hadn’t known what he was talking about. He hoped, for Blaine’s sake, that it was the former.

“I think you’d better go, Mr. Anderson,” Helen said, stepping forward to take control of the situation. “Your wife will be wondering how Blaine’s doing.”

There was a note of derision in her voice - Kurt suddenly realized that Blaine’s mother had been absent for the entire scene. He wondered where she was, if she even cared. Her indifference almost angered him more than Edmund’s vehemence. At least Edmund kept up the pretense that he cared about Blaine. His mother didn’t even try.

Edmund stood. He took another look at Blaine and opened his mouth. Without saying anything, he closed it again and turned away, leaving. The moment he was out of the room, Blaine relaxed and turned to Kurt. The tense expression on his face faded into a smile.

“You’re talking,” he said wonderingly.

Kurt smiled back at him. “You gave me a reason to,” he said.

The awed look Blaine gave him was worth any obstacles they had to put up with.

-

Blaine woke slowly. He blinked up at the white curtains above his head, still groggy from sleep. His ceiling wasn’t white, this wasn’t his bed, where—

The hospital!

Blaine sat up. He groaned as his stomach and head protested the move.

“Slow down, Blaine,” Kurt scolded from the bed next to his. “Doctor Shang said your stomach is still delicate.”

It was, Blaine thought as the pounding in his head abated slightly, still so strange to hear Kurt talk. He’d gotten used to reading Kurt’s facial expressions, his gestures, his notes. He’d gotten used to having Kurt be voiceless. And he sounded as Blaine had imagined he would - he had a high, clear, elegant voice. He was made for singing tenor. Blaine had almost wanted to ask him to sing yesterday, but it had felt like a bit much after—

After the confrontation with his father. Blaine took a deep breath.

“How are you?” Kurt asked, his eyes bright with concern. “Doctor Shang said you should have recovered, but—“

“I’m fine, Kurt,” Blaine said, interrupting him, smiling a bit. “Just a bit sore.”

Kurt leaned back into his pillows, obviously relieved. “Good,” he said.

Blaine eyed him. Kurt had some stitches on his forehead, but otherwise he looked fine - he’d recovered some of the color in his face that had been missing yesterday. Blaine relaxed a little. The thought of Kurt getting seriously hurt, especially in a car accident where Blaine had been driving—

That thought hurt too much. Blaine pushed it away.

“Kurt, we need to talk,” Blaine said quietly.

They hadn’t really had much of a chance to yesterday. Helen had urged Kurt to fall back asleep soon after Blaine’s father had left, and Blaine had followed suit not long after. But Blaine was determined that they would discuss what they needed to today. He had too many questions to be answered after overhearing yesterday’s confrontation.

Kurt sighed. “I thought you might say that,” he murmured. He straightened up a little. “Blaine, I love you,” he said clearly, his voice ringing in the empty room like a bell.

Blaine’s world tilted. Kurt had said it yesterday, but Blaine hadn’t thought—He hadn’t-- Kurt—He loved Blaine? It was too much like a dream come true that Blaine discretely pinched his arm under his blanket. He winced at the pain and looked up to see Kurt staring at him expectantly. Nope. Not a dream then.

“You’re sure?” Blaine asked hesitantly.

Kurt relaxed a little and smiled at him. “I was going to tell you that I was willing to try a relationship during the car ride,” he said. “So the life and death situation has just . . . Moved the proceedings along a little bit.”

Blaine tensed. “This isn’t only because of the—“

“Car crash?” Kurt finished for him. “No, it’s not. But it did help me along a bit.” Kurt shrugged. “It may have taken me longer to realize if it hadn’t been for the crash. But my feelings are true, Blaine. I promise.”

Blaine relaxed a little bit. He could take Kurt at his word. And besides, he wanted very desperately to believe it. “So what do we do now?” he asked tentatively.

Kurt smiled at him. “Blaine Anderson, would you do me the honor of being my boyfriend?”

Blaine blinked at him, open-mouthed. Then, slowly, his mouth curled into a smile. “I think I could do that,” he said.

Kurt snuck a glance at the door then put his feet over the edge of the bed.

“Kurt!” Blaine cried as Kurt hesitantly stood and took a step forward. “You’re not supposed to—“
“Hush,” Kurt said absently, moving forward slowly.

“Kurt—“ Blaine said, craning his neck up as Kurt approached the bed. “You need to—“

“Blaine,” Kurt said, leaning over him with a smile. Blaine’s breath caught. “Just shut up.”

Kurt leaned down and kissed him. Blaine’s eyes slipped closed. Kurt’s lips were dry and chapped and very, very warm. A hand curled around the back of Blaine’s head, fingers curling in his hair, and Blaine reached up to slide his own hands around Kurt’s neck.

“Oi!”

Kurt broke away from Blaine, flushing deeply. Blaine glared at Helen, who gave him a stern stare.

“You know you’re not supposed to be out of bed Kurt, even if you do want to kiss someone,” she said sternly. Kurt flushed deeper. Helen’s sternness suddenly melted into a smile. “But congratulations you two! It’s about time!”

Blaine snuck a glance over at Kurt and saw the way he was gaping at his aunt, face a tomato red. Blaine felt like his smile would break his face - he had never been happier.

-

“You know, you should tell him.”

Helen started and turned. Doctor Elizabeth Shang regarded her closely with her intense hazel eyes. Helen flushed a little, flustered for reasons she couldn’t name.

“Tell him what?” she said, stepping away from the window that allowed her to look in and watch Kurt laughing and talking with Blaine. Seeing Kurt happy, eyes shining with love, talking—it almost made her want to cry.

Doctor Shang rolled her eyes. “You know what,” she said scoldingly.

Helen’s heart leapt into her throat. Did she—did she know? How could she? Unless—
“You too?” she asked before she could stop herself.

Doctor Shang grinned at her. “Yes, me too,” she said.

Helen shook her head, turning away from Doctor Shang. “I—don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said hesitantly.

Doctor Shang snorted. “Yes, you do,” she said. “Look, Ms. Hummel, I don’t know why you’re hiding it, especially at your age, but that boy in there is obviously quite in love with another boy, and he won’t judge you—“

“Shut up!” Helen said sharply. “I get that you want to—help, or whatever it is, but I don’t—I can’t—“

Doctor Shang sighed. “Helen, I’ve felt you watching me,” she said quietly. Helen cringed into herself. “I wanted to let you know that I return your interest. But I won’t date anyone who isn’t true to themselves. And, to be honest, I think it’s beyond time you tell the truth - both to yourself, and to your nephew.”

Helen bit her lip. “Doctor Shang - Elizabeth. I don’t think I can.”

Helen could hear the smile in Elizabeth’s voice. “I think you underestimate yourself. You’re a strong woman, to carry Kurt through what’s happened to him.” Helen tensed. “Gossip spreads amongst doctors, Helen. Doctor Oliver’s act of insanity was a good story in this hospital for a long time.”

Helen glared at the door. “The imbecile deserved everything he got,” she spat.

A hand on her shoulder. Helen didn’t look away from the door. “I happen to agree,” Elizabeth said mildly.

“I don’t think I can tell him,” Helen said quietly.

It wasn’t that she was afraid Kurt would somehow reject her. It was that telling Kurt meant that it could never be buried again - Kurt would never let her bury it. When she admitted it to herself, she could allow herself to shove it deep down again until she could forget about it.

Elizabeth pushed at her shoulder. “Helen, I would very badly like to take you out on a date,” she said baldly. Helen’s heart lept into her throat. “But if you want to do that, you need to tell Kurt first. He deserves to know. And I hope, when we come to know each other better, you’ll also tell me why you hid it so long.” With a final look, Elizabeth turned on her heel and left.

Helen looked from where she’d stood to the door. She wanted what Elizabeth offered - she had since she’d first seen her, attending Kurt when he’d come in. But she still froze in terror at the thought of admitting who she was to Kurt, even knowing that his response would be warm and welcoming.

Helen stared at the door for a long time, torn. She caught sight of Kurt’s happy smile as Blaine told him about something, waving his arms rather more wildly than Helen was used to seeing from him, probably exaggerating for Kurt’s benefit. They looked so happy. Helen realized with an ache that she wanted that so very badly. And she would never get it if she kept burying herself in lies.

She opened the door.

“Helen!” Kurt said, looking pleased to see her. It still bowled Helen over to hear Kurt talking again. He had quickly lost the rasp he’d gained from his long silence, and his voice was as high and pure as it had ever been.

“Kurt, Blaine,” Helen said, settling in at Kurt’s side. Her hands started twining nervously in her lap.

Kurt immediately picked up on her mood. His eyes narrowed.

“Helen?” he asked hesitantly. “What is it? Is something wrong?”

Helen laughed. “Not wrong, no,” she said. She glanced over at Blaine, who looked just as worried as Kurt. “I just need to tell you something. And it’s going to be hard, because I’ve kept it to myself for so long. Too long, probably.”

Helen took a deep breath. Better to start at the beginning.

“Our parents were never like your dad, Kurt,” she said quietly. “If anything, they were quite a bit like Blaine’s father.” She saw Blaine flinch from the corner of her eye and sighed. Edmund Anderson hadn’t come to see his son again after that confrontation. She very much doubted he would, even if she wished the opposite for Blaine’s sake. “So I grew up in a . . . Stifled environment. I learned to keep anything about me that was out of the norm to myself, lest my father or mother catch wind of it somehow.”

Helen watched Kurt’s face, saw the light starting to dawn. She continued talking, however. She needed to say it out loud.

“To my regret, I assumed that Burt, who was the apple of our parents eyes, had adopted their beliefs. So I kept my . . . quirks hidden from him as well, although I now see that he would have accepted me whole-heartedly had I had the courage to confess to him. I regret so much that he died before he had the chance to know me truly.”

“Helen—“ Kurt tried to say, his eyes wide and sympathetic.

“Kurt, I’m a lesbian,” Helen cut him off. Her voice was surprisingly steady. “I’ve known since I was thirteen years old and I’ve never told anyone besides you.” Helen snorted. “I’ve never been in a relationship before. I’ve never tried to date a woman before.” She shook her head. “I was scared. Of letting anyone know me like that, I guess.” She met Kurt’s eyes. “But you’ve been—so brave, Kurt. And I can’t keep hiding anymore.”

Kurt smiled at her and took her hand. “Thank you for telling me,” he said quietly. His eyebrow rose. “So, Doctor Shang . . . .?”

Helen blushed before she could stop herself. Kurt’s cat-like grin told her that he’d caught it.

“Elizabeth would like to date me,” she admitted. Kurt’s grin widened into a geniune smile. “And I want to date her as well.”

“That’s great!” Blaine said from his bed. Helen looked over to see him beaming at her. “She seemed so nice when she came to visit. You deserve someone like that, Helen.” Blaine suddenly looked away from her. “Especially after everything you’ve done for me and Kurt.”

Helen smiled at him. “Thank you, Blaine,” she said.

Kurt’s hand tightened in hers, and Helen breathed out slowly. That hadn’t been so bad. She knew that other people would react differently, but it warmed her to know that these two boys that she considered pseudo-sons accepted her whole-heartedly and, indeed, were happy for her.

-

Kurt stared at the headstone. Burt Hummel, it read. Loving husband, brother, father. He will be sorely missed. He remembered that Helen had picked it out last year. He almost wished he would’ve said something, taken the headstone engraving on his own shoulders. But what could he have said? Burt Hummel, the strongest, most loving man I ever knew. The world is a darker place now that he’s left it. Something along those lines, probably.

“Hi, Dad,” he said quietly, tucking his legs under his chin. He could still a slight twinge in his stomach - he’d been released from the hospital two days ago, but his wounds hadn’t fully healed yet. “It’s been a long time.”

I’m disappointed in you, Kurt. Kurt winced from the memory of his dad’s sad, hurt face.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I should’ve done family night that night. I wish I had. Then my last conversation with you wouldn’t be full of disappointment. Then I wouldn’t regret that you died before I got to tell you how much you meant to me.”

Kurt sighed heavily.

“You were a great person, dad. You accepted me for who I was, no questions asked, and you did your best to protect me.” Kurt felt silent, thinking of Edmund Anderson. “I was so lucky to have you. I never really knew how lucky until recently, actually.” He smiled a bit. “I’ve met a boy, dad. His name’s Blaine. I think you’d like him - he likes football too. And he makes me happy.”
Kurt stared at the headstone. “You know, dad, I’ve been hanging on to you for so long. I don’t think I meant to do it—it’s just, it was so hard to let you go. To accept that you were gone and that you weren’t coming back. I always expected you to be there, you know? After mom died, you were my rock. Losing you set me adrift and I didn’t know how to swim and I ignored everyone who was throwing me a rope—“ Kurt shook his head, smiling a bit. “Sorry. Got a bit lost in my analogy there.”

He placed a hand over his dad’s name. “I wish you were here again,” he murmured.

An idea struck him. He hadn’t sang since he’d rediscovered his voice. Kurt licked his lips nervously, glancing around the graveyard. It was empty besides him. And he did have the perfect song in mind . . . .

Kurt stood up. He placed a hand on his father’s grave and took a deep breath.

“You were once my one companion
You were all that mattered
You were once a friend and father
Then my world was shattered.”

Kurt’s hand curled into a fist and he turned away from his dad’s headstone, turning instead to face the graveyard at large. He could see memories of his dad—his dad smiling, teaching him to ride a bike, showing him around the shop, giving Kurt his first car, the look on his face when Kurt had come out to him, his speech after Rose’s Turn, the way his eyes had turned sad and disappointed the day he’d died, the last time Kurt had spoken to him—

“Wishing you were somehow here again
Wishing you were somehow near
Sometimes it seemed if I just dreamed
Somehow you would be here.

Wishing I could here your voice again
Knowing that I never would
Dreaming of you helped me to do
All that you dreamed I could.”

His dad had always believed in him. Kurt could never remember a moment where Burt hadn’t supported him as much as he could, given him every ounce of his belief and faith. Kurt remembered overhearing Burt boasting about him to one of his fishing buddies - how his kid got the best grades in class, how he sang better than Mariah Carey, or whatever her name was, how he was the best damn kid a father could ask for. Kurt had held that memory close when he’d seen Burt getting close to Finn, although it hadn’t been enough to stop him from feeling envious of their connection. Looking back, he wished he’d never doubted his father. Burt had loved him. Kurt could never doubt that.

He walked past Burt’s grave, moving among the headstones. So many names, most of them ones that Kurt didn’t recognize.

“Passing bells and sculpted angels, cold and monumental
Seem for you the wrong companion, you were warm and gentle.”

Kurt wandered back to his dad’s headstone, staring at the engraved letters. He could feel tears building up behind his eyes, brought on by his own memories and emotions and by the passion he knew the song was building up to.

“Too many years
Fighting back tears
Why can't the past just die!

Wishing you were here again
Knowing we must say goodbye
Try to forgive
Teach me to live
Give me the strength to try!

No more memories
No more silent tears
No more gazing across the wasted years
Help me say goodbye
Help me say goodbye!”

Kurt’s voice trailed off. The tears were falling freely now, but Kurt was smiling too. It was different, singing his feelings. It had been so long since he’d done it that letting all those emotions free, letting them soar with melody and lyrics—it felt like catharsis. He was letting the emotions that had tied him down and ruined him for so long take flight in song, and it felt amazing. How could I ever let this go? Kurt wondered. Never again. Music was a part of who he was—never again could he lock it away in a box and not look at it again. It had been hard enough the first time.

Kurt bent his head towards Burt’s grave. He kissed the top of it.

“I love you, dad,” he said quietly.

Then he turned and left, feeling lighter than he had in months.

-

Outside of the graveyard, Blaine was waiting. He had bandages on his face, but he could walk easily enough again and the doctors had released him a day after Kurt was let go.

“How’d it go?” Blaine asked anxiously, reaching for Kurt’s hand. Kurt took it in his own, holding it tightly.

“Fine,” Kurt murmured. “It went fine.”

Blaine was still all anxiety, staring at Kurt with big, worried brown eyes. Kurt laughed a little and the nervous energy in Blaine abated slightly.

“Blaine,” Kurt said, still smiling, “I think it’s time I told you about my dad.” Blaine’s eyes widened. “Burt Hummel,” Kurt started, pulling Blaine down the road, “was the bravest, kindest man I ever knew. He loved me more than anyone else in the world . . . .”

Blaine listened closely as Kurt told him everything he could think of about Burt - all of his childhood memories, including his seventh birthday, the way he’d reacted when Kurt had come out, the way he’d supported Kurt his entire life--everything about him. And when Kurt ran out of words, unsure of what to say next, Blaine squeezed his hand.

“I wish I could have known him,” he said softly.

Kurt smiled. “He would’ve liked you,” he said confidently.

For a moment, he imagined a world where he and Blaine had met some other way--perhaps at Sectionals, since Blaine was in the Warblers. A world where Burt was alive and Kurt had never moved in with Helen. A world where he could have both the boy of his dreams and the father he loved.

That world was so beautiful. Kurt was so sorry that it could never come to be. But, at the same time, he was happy with the way things had turned out. For better or for worse, he’d come out alright. And that, in the end, was all that mattered.

-

Kurt watched as his friends slowly started to trickle into the bookshop, in groups of two or three. He bit his lips and twined his hands together nervously. He half-wished that he hadn’t let Blaine talk him into this.

A hand landed on his shoulder, and, as if Kurt’s thoughts had summoned him, Blaine muttered, “You alright?”

Kurt snorted. “Not particularly,” he said quietly. No one in New Directions knew that he was talking again yet. Not only was this meant to be a sort of coming out for his and Blaine’s relationship, but it was also a way to show them that he was speaking and singing again.

He tensed a little bit when he saw Mr. Schuester walk in, followed closely by Coach Sylvester. Kurt snuck a look at Blaine, who looked suspiciously innocent, then snorted. He wasn’t surprised really that Mr. Schue had shown up, but Coach Sylvester was a bit of a head-turn. He met her eyes as she strode across the room and she, to Kurt’s shock, smiled a little and tipped her head in greeting.

Maybe I will re-join the Cheerios, Kurt thought, staring at her. He had never really believed Quinn when she insisted Coach Sylvester liked him, not even the events of last year. But apparently she liked him enough to greet him with what passed for warmth from Sue Sylvester. How strange, Kurt thought.

The group gathered loosely in front of Blaine’s usual spot, talking amongst themselves.

“Are you ready for this?” Blaine asked Kurt quietly, eyeing his friends.

Kurt took a deep breath and nodded. He looked over at Helen, who was at the register and watching him, and nodded towards her as well. She gave him a thumbs up. Kurt stepped forward. It took a moment for his friends to notice that he was waiting for their attention, but they all eventually stopped talking and turned to look at him. Kurt didn’t look behind him as Blaine started the recorded track they’d agreed to. Kurt could see his friends’ surprise, and their growing suspense as the music continued, until—

Kurt sang.

“Live in my house,
I'll be your shelter,
Just pay me back
WIth one thousand kisses
Be my lover, and I'll cover you.”

They were all staring at him, all except Coach Sylvester, who was watching him with a satisfied smirk. Kurt smiled a little bit. It got easier as he kept singing. He turned towards Blaine, who had come up on his side, and started singing to him, relaxing more when he saw the warmth in Blaine’s brown eyes.

“Open your door,
I'll be your tenant
Don't got much baggage to lay at your feet
But sweet kisses I've got to spare
I'll be there and I'll cover you.”

Blaine joined in with him, taking a harmony to Kurt’s melody. They joined hands. Kurt heard more gasps of surprise from in front of them, but he kept his eyes focused on Blaine.

“I think they meant it when they said you can't buy love
Now I know you can rent it
A new lease you are my love, on life
Be my life
Just slip me on,
I'll be your blanket
Wherever,whatever, I'll be your coat.”

Kurt smiled, drawing Blaine in close, singing to him, “You’ll be my King, and I'll be your castle.”

Blaine shook his head, looking amused, “No, you'll be my Queen, and I'll be your moat.”

They joined together again:

“I think they meant it when they said you can't buy love
Now I know you can rent it
A new lease you are my love, on life
All my life
I've longed to discover
Something as true as this is.”

The warmth in Blaine’s face seemed to deepen as he twined his fingers with Kurt’s and sang:

“So with a thousand sweet kisses,I'll cover you
With a thousand sweet kisses,I'll cover you,
When you're worn out and tired,
When your heart has expired.”

Kurt joined in with Blaine then, taking a harmony, singing high and sweet as he so liked to do, feeling light as air--

“If you're cold and you're lonely
You've got one nickel only
With a thousand sweet kisses, I'll cover you,
With a thousand sweet kisses, I'll cover you
Oh, lover,
I'll cover you,
Yeah,
Oh, lover,
I'll cover you . . .”

There was a long stunned silence. Then everyone started talking at once, converging upon Kurt and Blaine as a massive crowd. Kurt could barely hear Rachel proclaiming how she’d known it all along and how it was lovely Kurt could sing again and would he like to do a duet over Mercedes and Tina and Quinn demanding details at the same time as Finn professed his confusion and as Puck congratulated Blaine on being such a stud.

Kurt laughingly tried to answer their questions at the same time, keeping his hand firmly entwined with Blaine’s. Over his friends’ heads, he met Coach Sylvester’s eyes. She raised an eyebrow. Kurt, knowledgeable about body language after using it for so long, read it as, Are you happy now?

Kurt remembered how he’d been when he’d last seen Coach Sylvester. He’d been cold and numb and so, so lonely. And now, surrounded by his loving friends, his hand enclasped with someone who he loved quite dearly, looked on by adults who cared about him and what he did and how he was feeling—

He slowly nodded. Coach Sylvester smiled then. Kurt, bubbling with happiness, smiled back at her, then turned back to his friends, tightening his hand around Blaine’s. He felt happier than he had in a long time.

-