“That’ll be seven forty-two, thank you.”

Blaine put down the scoop and took the cash from his customer, quickly counting out change from the till and handing it back with a receipt. As the customer left the shop, her children delighted with their multi-colored cones of ice cream, Blaine dunked the scoop in the container of warm water and massaged his right forearm with his left hand.

He had got the job at Funky Freddy’s Ice Cream Parlor just as school started after the Christmas vacation, thinking it’d be a welcome change from his previous jobs – paper runs in the freezing cold, babysitting corporate brats and dog walking. A few of his friends from Dalton had jobs in Westerville’s largest mall, in grocery stores and at the local pool, but Funky Freddy’s perks of late afternoon shifts, continuously playing MTV on the plasma screen and free ice cream had swayed him.

Oh, and did he mention the ice cream parlor was a ten minute drive from Lima? Blaine couldn’t quite believe his luck – he was practically being paid to take ice cream by the carton to his beautiful boyfriend nearly every other day.

Of course, Kurt didn’t eat the ice cream most of the time, mentioning something about his hips and skin, resting his hand atop Blaine’s stomach and poking hard through his shirt as if to try to demonstrate the ill-effects that overconsumption of ice cream could have on his physique. Blaine would tell Kurt that he didn’t mind, he’d always work off the weight by practicing the crazy dance numbers the Warblers were going to use to kill New Directions at Sectionals next year, and Kurt would raise one eyebrow in an oh, really sort of look which was always ruined a little by the tiny grin he’d have on his face, and Blaine would laugh, and Kurt would laugh, and they’d end up tumbling onto the floor, Blaine trying his best to tickle Kurt, and Kurt trying his best to retaliate, and they’d be screeching with laughter, practically lying on top of each other –

Well, until Burt would come upstairs and knock hard twice on the door before throwing it open, throwing out some quip like how’s the homework coming along, boys with that fierce, knowing look upon his face as he would take in his giggling, out-of-breath son cuddling into his son’s giggling, equally out-of-breath boyfriend on the floor.

Blaine smiled as he rinsed off the scoop in the large sink behind the counter and threw it into the dishwasher, thinking about the last time he’d been at Kurt’s, “studying” in his boyfriend’s bedroom. They’d managed to straighten their shirts and jump up into acceptable positions on the bed and on the desk chair before Burt had opened the door to check up on them, and both boys thought they’d made a pretty good show of appropriate behavior. Well, at least until Burt turned around in the doorway and said, “You know Kurt, I found Shakespeare quite tough in my day as well. That Romeo and Juliet – couldn’t get through the first page. But I don’t think it’ll get any easier if you read it upside down. Staying for dinner, Blaine?”

“Blaine.”

His boss’s voice interrupted his reverie, and Blaine’s head snapped around to see him. Frederick Newton was the last person Blaine would have ever associated with the curling fonts and painfully bright, clashing colors that made up Funky Freddy’s d�cor. His boss wore a three-piece suit at all times and carried two Parker pens in his shirt pocket. It was a strange and confusing contradiction.

“Your phone was buzzing in the back room, Blaine – you know the rules. Make sure it’s turned off.”

“Right sir,” said Blaine, turning a little pink. “It won’t happen again, sir.”

“Good, good,” said Frederick Newton, nodding absently as he surveyed the empty shop. “Saturday afternoon, almost summer – where are the blasted customers?”

Blaine didn’t answer – his shift was over in two minutes, and any conversation he was drawn into by Frederick could last for nearly an hour. He tapped his leg anxiously, hoping that his boss would just check the supplies and head back into the back room so Blaine could pick up the tub of ice cream his mother wanted and head home.

His watch hit five o’clock and Blaine rejoiced silently, already planning his playlist for his drive home. He slipped the sticky apron over his head, washed his hands and collected his bag from the back room. “Bye Mr. Newton,” Blaine said, waving as he left the shop. Frederick, with his head in the main refrigerator, mumbled something unintelligible in response. Shaking his head, Blaine checked his phone as he walked to his car, which was parked on the next street. The message icon was flashing, though not from a message from Kurt, as he was expecting – it was a message from Finn instead. Curious, Blaine opened it.

Hey dude, I guess Kurt told you about the funeral for Coach Sylvester’s sister today. We just got back, and he’s pretty upset. You know, snappy and bossy and stuff. He won’t talk to me – could you give him a call or something? Thanks, man. – Finn

Blaine stopped outside his car and considered. Kurt had been pretty nonchalant about the funeral plans, telling Blaine about Jean Sylvester’s video and New Directions’ arrangement of Pure Imagination. Kurt had wanted Blaine’s input into his audition piece more, and the boys had choreographed Some People for days on end, but Blaine could tell Kurt’s anxiousness was more than just nerves. Kurt had told Blaine that he didn’t need to come to the funeral, that he could go to work and everything would be fine.

Well, Kurt didn’t say anything about after the funeral, Blaine thought as he unlocked his car and got in. He directed the air conditioning vents towards the ice cream on the passenger seat and drove off, following the signs to Lima. His mom’s hazelnut praline cravings would just have to wait.

* * *


The Hummels’ street was rumbling with noise as Blaine parked and got out of his car, the tub of ice cream in his hand. Blaine walked up the front path backwards and examined the surrounding houses – a barbeque in one, a bunch of kids jumping into a pool in the backyard of another, and the rowdy cheers emanating from the lot next door as the neighbor watched the weekend game in his shed.

He rang the doorbell and Finn opened it almost immediately. Blaine could see that his face looked tired and drawn, and his eyes were a little red.

“Did you order pizza again, Finn?” Kurt’s voice yelled from upstairs. “Why you insist on eating so much greasy, disgusting food, I’ll never know.”

“He’s upstairs,” Finn said, rather unnecessarily. “Be careful – you probably haven’t seen him like this before.”

“Thanks man,” Blaine said, nodding as he clapped Finn on the shoulder. He headed into the kitchen and grabbed two spoons from the drawer before he went up the stairs – the house seemed empty apart from the boys, and Blaine wondered where Burt and Carole were.

Those thoughts vanished as Blaine neared Kurt’s room. The door was closed, but the light was shining through the cracks and the opening notes of Viva la Vida could be heard, the volume making the door rattle a little.

Blaine knocked and waited for a moment before opening the door. Kurt was sitting at his desk, textbooks and notebooks spread out around him, his usually perfectly styled hair on end from having fingers run through it again and again. Kurt’s only concession to hearing the door open was to turn the volume down a fraction, which, as Blaine soon realized, was so that Kurt could be heard over the top of the pounding music.

“No pizza, Finn – I’ve told you a million times. There’s no need to spend your money on this rubbish when there’s perfectly good food in the house.”

Blaine smiled sadly as he opened the door completely and crossed the room behind Kurt, sitting down carefully on the bed. “Well, that’s alright,” he said lightly, “I didn’t actually spend any money on this.”

Blaine bit back a laugh at the speed at which Kurt’s chair spun upon hearing his voice. “Blaine!” Kurt exclaimed, fumbling for the volume controls on his computer. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, you know, in the neighborhood,” Blaine said, and amended as Kurt’s eyes narrowed, “and I may have heard that you were terrifying your poor old brother, who wanted to know if I’d be able to calm you down.”

If looks could kill, the glare Kurt sent down through his floor to the living room below where they could hear the sounds of the football game would have fried Finn on the spot.

“Stupid Finn,” was all he said though, as he turned back to his desk, flipping the page in his textbook and picking up his pen again. Kurt seemed to remember Blaine was still sitting on his bed, and spun around again. “I told you that you didn’t need to come and comfort me, Blaine. The funeral was fine – I’m fine.”

“Mmm,” said Blaine noncommittally, watching his boyfriend.

“I mean it, I’m fine.”

“Alright,” Blaine said quickly, surprising Kurt. “Is it alright if I stay for a while? I think I left my algebra textbook here the other day, and I’ve got a test on Monday morning.”

“Sure,” said Kurt, waving to the textbooks stacked at the end of his desk. “It’s probably in there somewhere.” Blaine kicked off his shoes and rolled them to the foot of the bed, tucking his legs underneath him and putting the tub of ice cream on Kurt’s bedside table before grabbing the textbook and scooting up against the headboard. The book open on his knees, chin resting on his hand and fingers brushing the hair from his face, Blaine looked the perfect picture of concentration.

Kurt stared at him for a moment before shaking his head and turning back to his homework. Twenty minutes passed, in which neither boy made any noise apart from the light scratching of pen against paper and the rustling of turning pages.

“The funeral went well,” said Kurt finally, staring at the half a problem he’d managed to complete. “No one fainted or did anything socially unacceptable. That was good.”

“Oh, that’s good,” Blaine said softly. He’d been reading the same proof for a formula for the last ten minutes, and hadn’t taken a word of it in.

Another few silent minutes passed, in which Kurt made a half-hearted attempt at the rest of the question, and Blaine gave up on reading and concentrated on tracing tiny hearts on the page with his fingernails.

“Pure Imagination sounded really good. I’m glad we arranged it properly.”

“Were the acoustics alright in that room?”

“Yeah. Tina sounded fantastic.”

“That’s good.”

Kurt looked up from his work again to see Blaine staring at him, chin on hand, with a contemplative look on his face. Heaving a huge sigh, Kurt closed his book and climbed onto his bed, facing Blaine with a foot of space between them. The algebra book slipped from Blaine’s knee but neither boy paid it any attention.

As they looked at each other, Kurt felt the mask he’d put on since the funeral ended slip away, little by little. Blaine watched as Kurt’s shoulders drooped and his eyes softened. The dark circles beneath Kurt’s eyes became more pronounced, and as he rubbed the skin on his forehead, his hands shook slightly.

Kurt opened his mouth to say something more, but stopped. Instead, he played with a loose thread on his comforter, and concentrated on tying it into a knot.

“Coach Sylvester wrote a beautiful speech,” he told the comforter, trying to stop his hands from shaking. “It was all about Jean, and how much she l-loved her … and how she wanted to just spend a little more t-t-time with her …”

“Kurt,” said Blaine softly, and Kurt looked up to see Blaine tossing his textbook to the end of the bed and holding out his hand. Kurt took it and all pretenses were dropped. Blaine opened his arms and Kurt crawled into them, sitting in between Blaine’s legs and turning so the side of his face was resting against Blaine’s chest. Blaine wrapped his arms around Kurt and leaned back against the headboard again, rocking slightly.

Blaine pressed his cheek against Kurt’s hair and felt his entire body shake as he kept speaking. “She couldn’t read it,” he said, and the shaking became a little more intense. Blaine squeezed him more tightly and rubbed his hands up and down Kurt’s arms. “She couldn’t do it. Mr. Shue had to read it for her. Coach Sylvester couldn’t read it.”

“Strength doesn’t mean you can’t let people help you, Kurt,” Blaine told him, figuring that was where his boyfriend’s thoughts lay. “It doesn’t make you invincible.”

Kurt let out a shaky breath and pressed himself closer to Blaine, laying a hand on his cheek and looking up. “I know,” he said quietly. “I just- I know.”

Blaine didn’t push him any further, and they just sat quietly, Kurt’s arms wrapping around Blaine and holding him just as tightly as Blaine was.

“Hey Blaine?” Kurt asked, his voice more or less back to normal. “Is that ice cream in the tub?”

Blaine pulled back, an incredulous look on his face as he took in Kurt’s tired smile and slightly red eyes. “Yes … but who are you, and what have you done with Kurt Hummel?”

“Shut up, Blaine,” said Kurt, as he reached across to the bedside table to grab the ice cream and the spoons. The lid was placed carefully back on the table, and the boys took a spoon each to make a start on the melting ice cream. Blaine plunged his spoon in first and it emerged with a mound of ice cream attached. Kurt started to laugh, but was quickly silenced by the sight of the spoon whizzing towards his face. “What- no- wait!”

The rest of his exclamation was cut off by Blaine quickly feeding him the entire spoonful, and it was Blaine’s turn to laugh as Kurt pulled a series of strange faces as he tried to swallow the ice cream as quickly as possible.

“Oh, it’s on, Blaine Warbler,” Kurt gasped as he finally got his breath back, holding up his spoon threateningly.

“Bring it, Kurt Elizabeth Hummel,” said Blaine, grinning, as he tapped Kurt on the nose with the end of his spoon.


* * *


It was close to midnight when the DVD they’d been watching finally finished, and Blaine looked down to see that Kurt had fallen asleep, his head on Blaine’s shoulder, his mouth open adorably. Blaine slipped out of Kurt’s embrace and ejected the disc from Kurt’s laptop, sliding Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory into its case and putting it on the bedside table.

He got off the bed and searched for his shoes in the dark, fumbling as he tried to slip them on without undoing the laces. He bent over Kurt, pulling the covers tight, brushing his hair away from his face, and kissing his cheek.

Blaine picked up the empty container of ice cream and the spoons and left the room. “Good night, Kurt,” he whispered as he turned in the doorway, and then shut the door, making his way down the stairs, out of the house, all the way home.