A/N: Okay, I admit, I'm odd. For many reasons. But specifically here because, like most of my imaginings, while I was writing this chapter I felt the need to find a floor plan for Gram's house. Just in case anyone else cares, I have included a link. I will do my best to be clear enough that you won't have need to look it up.

Just replace the stuff in the [] with the indicated punctuation mark: www[dot]houseplans[dot]com[slash]plan_details[dot]asp?v[equal]1&id[equal]19660

Oh, and this is a bit of a heavy chapter. I don't mean to offend anyone. I do apologize if I do.

Dave sat in the kitchen, a cup of hot chocolate in his hands. While the shower had taken the edge off his lust, chances were that if he wasn't totally exhausted when he went to sleep he would simply end up right where he started. Dreaming of Hummel. Of kissing him. Touching him.

He had three options really. He could stay up till his eyes wouldn't stay open. Unfortunately it was already 4 AM and the younger cousins were sure to start the morning early. He could exercise until his body simply shut down. But the house was full, so the punching bag in the basement was out, and it was too cold outside to run laps. Or he could drink himself into oblivion. He really liked that idea. He just couldn't figure out how to get around the people in the front room who were sleeping between him and Gram's only liquor cabinet. With a deep sigh he abandoned the idea. Gram would kick his butt if he tried anyway.

And she wasn't happy with him at the moment. He had known she'd be disappointed in his grades. Both her and Gramps were always saying 'The one thing no one can take away from you is a good education.' But that wasn't what had set her off. That's what he didn't get. Why did she care about the bulling? About his word choice?

Sure, he used the words fag and homo and whatever as a cover. Azimio and the guys wouldn't suspect him of being gay if he was at the forefront of the attack. And maybe if he said it enough, hated it enough, he would be fixed. He just wanted to be normal. To like looking at the Playboys Azimio stole from his Dad's supply. To kiss Brittany or Santana and fell half of what he feel when he kissed Hummel. Hell, feel anything when he kissed a girl.

Pushing his cup away from him, Dave let his forehead fall to the table with a dull thud. He felt so alone. There was no one he could talk to. His sisters were totally out of the question. They were too young and, well, girls. His parents were also useless. Both of them were always working. And really, who voluntarily talked to their parents about sex. Even the youth minister at the church Mom dragged him to every Sunday she wasn't working was not someone he could confide in. Even with his spotty attendance, he couldn't count all the times they'd had people witness who had just come back from some camp and were now fixed. And Dave so wasn't ready to go off in the woods with a bunch of guy's he didn't know and talk about how Jesus could fix everything if they just worked hard enough. Dave wasn't sure he believed enough in God that He would bother with him, anyway.

He lifted his head and let it fall gently back to the table. The old wood made a dull sound.

"Careful there," a voice said softly from the doorway, "The table may be thick, but I doubt it has much of a chance against your thick skull."

Dave looked up to see Gram walking into the room. Her old lamb skin slippers made no noise over the hardwood floor. She ruffled his hair as she walked by him, "I should know, you get your thick-headedness from me."

He watched as she moved to the stove and put on the kettle. The dancing flame of the propane stove lit the bottom of the stainless steel kettle an eerie blue.

Gram sat down beside him, putting her hand on his arm. Dave wanted to say something to her. To apologize. Something. But he didn't know what to say. He didn't even know what to apologize for.

"I want to apologize," Gram said, echoing his thoughts. "I shouldn't have gotten mad at you like that.

"Not that I condone the use of that language," she continued, patting his arm to emphasize her words. "But I shouldn't have yelled at you."

"It's okay," Dave said, putting his hand over hers.

"No, David, it's not," she said, shaking her head. She looked so sad. Like she used to just after Gramps died. "It's not fair for me to take out all my anger that comes up with that word on you."

Dave was getting more confused by the moment. Why would hearing the word 'fag' make Gram mad? She wasn't gay. She'd been married for decades. Happily married. All his aunts and uncles were married. Some not so happily. But none of them were gay either. The only messed up one was Dave.

Panic sliced through him. She knew. Why else would she react that way?

As his heart prepared to take off out of his chest, the kettle started its low pre-whistle. Dave pulled in long deep breaths as Gram got up and pulled the kettle off the heat before it could start its full-throated whistle. He ran one hand over his head, trying to figure out how to get out of this. The thought of lying to Gram left a bitter taste in his mouth. He had never lied to her. Not since he was like five. Partly because she always saw right through him, and partly because she was the one person he could tell anything to. Well almost anything.

He had gathered his scattered thoughts enough to attempt an escape from the room when he felt Gram's hand on his shoulder. He felt her hesitation in her touch as much as he heard it in her voice, "David, I need…I think you need to see something. Know something."

Dave looked up at her. He had never known her to be so hesitant. His own panic was forgotten. He just wanted to fix whatever was hurting her, "Sure, Gram. Whatever you want."

Gram nodded and some of the tension left her face. Dave felt himself relax a little. Her mug of tea in her hand, she led the way out of the kitchen. Dave pushed the chair away from the table as quietly as he could and followed. They tip-toed through the family room full of sleeping people. One of Dave's younger cousins had thrown a leg out of his sleeping bag and Gram paused to tuck him back in before moving on.

When they reached the door to Gram's bedroom, Dave hesitated. He couldn't remember ever going in there. Though he couldn't remember ever being told he wasn't allowed. He had just always known. That was Gram and Gramps' space.

Sensing his hesitation, Gram turned back to him with a smile and waved him forward. After closing the door behind him, Gram turned on the light. Dave blinked at the sudden brightness. As his eyes adjusted, he took in the room. Like the rest of the house, it reminded him of his grandparents. The bed was covered in an old quilt. The wood bed frame and bedside tables looked like they came from the Old Country, but had probably been made by Gramps years ago. It was clean and neat. Unlike his own room, the only dish in this room was the mug Gram had just put down on one of the small tables.

Gram had moved into the room and now stood beside the door that led out to the covered deck that all but surrounded the house. In the corner stood a small table. On its top was a collection of black and white pictures. As he approached, Gram picked one of them up. Dave scanned the rest of the frames. He didn't recognize anyone in the pictures. If he had to guess he'd bet that one of the pictures of a couple solemnly looking out at him was Gram's or Gramps' parents.

When Gram held out the picture for him to take, Dave looked back to her. To his surprise there was a tear in her eye. Taking the frame, he looked down and then did a double take. If he didn't know better, he would have sworn that it was his face looking out at him. But the photo was old. As old as any other on the table. He looked up at Gram, his mouth hanging open.

"My brother, the eldest of use," she said, her smile was sad, "His name was David."

Another shock ran through Dave. He looked back to the picture. On close examination, he could see the differences in this face from his own, but the resemblance was scary. Dave had to swallowed twice before he found his voice, "I didn't know you had a brother."

"He didn't-" Gram's voice cracked. The sound was like a hot brand in Dave's gut. "He didn't make it out of Poland."

Gram moved away to sit on the edge of the bed. Dave couldn't move.

"He was murdered by the SS. It was the reason my parents risked running. We couldn't stay there after that." Dave could hear the tears thick in her voice. He realized he was crying too when the picture blurred.

"Why?" Dave asked, "Why did they…"

He couldn't find the words. He looked up, hopping she understood his question. Gram wasn't looking at him, but staring out the sliding glass door into the darkness. She took a shuttering breath before she answered, "They were harassing his boyfriend. David tried to protect him."

Dave stared at her in total shock. His 'boyfriend'? He tried to process the information but his mind couldn't seem to grasp it.

"I was across the street. I watched-" Her voice broke again and she wiped at the tears that poured down her face, "I watched as they beat him to death. They yelled all those words. My sister had to hold me back or I would have run to him. She covered my mouth to muffle my screams. Or they would have come after us."

Her eyes moved back to Dave's, "I was ten."

She stood then, moving to stand in front of Dave. Her hands covered his on the frame, "You don't really understand the hate that is in those words. The type of hate that kills thousands and thousands of people.

"Promise me, David, promise me," she said, her hands squeezing his, her eyes boring into his very soul, "promise you'll never use that word, or any word like it, ever again."

All Dave could do was nod. His eyes turned to the picture. To his namesake. His gay great-uncle. And tried to figure out who that made him.