AN: Thanks everyone again for reading. For flowerhere, I agree that it would be wrong of Kurt to mention Blaine's illness without discussing it with Blaine, so I made sure that he had Blaine's permission. I actually feel like, after what he's said about wishing he hadn't run away in the past, that he would want to face this head on and not keep secrets. That being said, he did ask for some privacy and addressed the group himself on his own terms when he felt he was ready. As for Mr. Schue, well, he's never been incredibly couth. He did kind of give Miss Pillsbury crap in "Born This Way" for not embracing her OCD. In this story, anyway, bringing mental illness out in the open is going to be a kind of second story/recurring theme, so I hope to do it tastefully and that you will continue to enjoy it.
AN: While I'm pretty sure most of you already know what's coming, I fully expect some of you to hate me by the end of this chapter. That being said, I wrote this back around Easter and am just now re-reading it for the first time since, and I'm really happy with how this turned out. So, I hope you can all enjoy it. Sue is hard to write!
"Mr. Schuester?"
"Kurt!" Mr. Schue glanced over his shoulder then back at the clipboard in his hand as he stood, pen in hand, to check off each item from the list as he surveyed the pile of equipment that needed to be hauled out to the park. "I thought you'd all be meeting me at the venue."
Kurt slunk in, suddenly self-conscious, and fidgeted with his red ascot where it was fixed above the china collared white Henley they were all wearing for the performance. His other hand nervously picking at the button holding up the rolled up cuff of his opposite sleeve. Once he donned the blue shorts, he was well aware that he'd look like Fred from Scooby Doo, but that couldn't be helped. "I thought you might need help with some of the equipment, and I have a lot of room in my car..."
Or he really just needed to talk.
Apparently not finding what he was looking for, Will cast a searching glare to the shelf in the corner before strolling over and grabbing a rolled up extension cord and a box of other miscellaneous connectors. "I actually had it covered, but more hands makes lighter work, so I definitely won't turn down the offer. You wanna grab that masking tape?"
Kurt nodded and retrieved the roll of painter's tape they used to mark 'places' on the stage. He couldn't help tipping his head slightly to the side when he crossed into Schuester's line of sight to set it down, pretended to push aside a strand of hair to camouflage the movement. "And I actually wanted to discuss a little... wardrobe situation I'm having."
Mr. Schuester pulled his eyes off the clipboard and fully addressed Kurt for the first time. "I like the color, but it's really too hot for that ascot, don't you think?"
"Probably," Kurt admitted, then reached up to undo the knot at his throat, "but it's also too hot for concealer." He noted the sharp intake of breath when the bruise on his throat was finally revealed and couldn't miss the slightly uncomfortable grimace on Mr. Schue's face when he slipped a finger into the collar of Kurt's shirt to slide it back and get a better assessment of the damage before drawing away again like he'd been burned. "I tried to cover it with makeup, but it's already melted off twice. I just barely managed to keep it from staining my shirt, and I was using the good stuff I bought when we did 'Rocky Horror Picture Show.'"
"Umm..."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Schue. I really am. We're usually so careful." They were. Blaine had never not asked for permission before marking Kurt, always aware and respectful of Kurt's limits when it came to his skin and his privacy, but last night he hadn't asked. Kurt wouldn't have denied him if he had. In fact, he'd offered, just not in so many (or any) words, willing more than he could say to be wanted, to be claimed, to be Blaine's. This wasn't about any personal shame or self-consciousness. "I'm actually kind of okay with it. I mean, Santana's not going to pull any punches, and Finn's probably going to be redder than this scarf if he sees it, but I'm not embarrassed or anything."
"So, you're worried it might be inappropriate, because of the show?" Schue was obviously fishing, squirming like the proverbial worm on the hook in his effort to figure out exactly why Kurt was putting him on the spot the way he was.
"No, it's not that, either." The thought had crossed Kurt's mind, but only in passing. The show was actually the farthest thing from it at the moment, but it did give him an excuse to talk to Mr. Schuester, and with his Dad just getting off a plane and spending all morning emceeing the parade, he didn't really know who else to talk to. "I just sort of don't really want… Blaine to see it."
Mr. Schuester blinked, eyes wide as if he didn't know how to respond. "I...I'm pretty sure he's seen it," he ventured, scrubbing at the back of his neck. Then he seemed to have an idea and jerked back a step, "U-unless i-it wasn't..."
"Oh! No! Mr. Schue, it was definitely Blaine. There's no one else. No, Blaine's the-the only one, like... ever..."
Mr. Schuester held up his hand, bowing his head as he wrapped his other arm across his chest. "That's... enough, Kurt. I really don't need to know more than that." Not raising his head up from where it was tipped nearly chin to chest, he rolled just his eyes up to meet Kurt's. "So, before you volunteer something that's going to scar us both for life, I'm just going to come out and ask. Kurt, why don't you want Blaine to see..." he gestured to Kurt's neck, "that, when he's the one who put it there in the first place? I mean, it's been awhile since I was your age, but usually when someone does... that... in a conspicuous place, isn't it because they want to see it?" As soon as he said it, the hand behind his neck slid around and over his entire mouth and chin, and he blinked at Kurt expectantly, almost as if he was afraid of the answer.
"That's the thing, I..." Kurt bit his lip, "I don't think he really knew what he was doing." And that was the crux of it, wasn't it? Not that Blaine wasn't present the night before, he was, but that he'd been so much... more than usual, somehow lacking all of the trappings and bindings that made him safe and familiar, his naked soul bleeding out into the sheets and seeping into Kurt's pores in a way he'd never let himself before.
Mr. Schuester uncurled, a hand going Kurt's elbow. "Wait, Kurt. Are you saying he might have been... impaired... when you...? Because, if that's the case, then there are some serious moral implications. A-are you okay? Is he?"
"That's just it! I don't know!" Even hours later, Kurt couldn't still the tremor that quaked up his spine at the memory, the quiet awe and reverie of being simultaneously blessed and cursed, redeemed and condemned. He'd never been so awesomely terrified, exposed and wrapped up in everything and nothing. And while Kurt could appreciate the delicious paradox of it, the perfect literary quality of it, he wasn't sure that Blaine could. Not now.
"Kurt..."
"I'm fine. I was fine the whole time." A long beat, because he hadn't really considered what he was trying to say, didn't really have words to describe the apprehension clawing at the base of his skull. "It was amazing. It's always amazing, but... it was really intense, and we didn't talk like, at all, except..." He broke off, choked up as the ghost of the night before passed through him. "I thought it was just because we hadn't really been alone together for a while, you know, but then he started apologizing. And it was like he didn't know he was saying it." He grabbed his elbows. "This is something he would never do, not without asking me if it was okay. And don't get me wrong, if he had asked, I would have totally been okay with it. I am okay with it..."
"But you think maybe he was a little out of control and might feel like he took advantage."
"I should have asked if he was okay with it. I should've just asked if he was okay at all. He beats himself up about everything, Mr. Schue. Especially now. He thinks everything he does or wants is tainted somehow, because everyone keeps telling him he's sick. He doesn't trust himself. He needs me, and if I had been thinking clearly, I would have stopped him, taken a step back. I should have, but I-" He cleared his throat, face burning. "I really didn't want him to." He hadn't realized how close he was to tears until he blinked and the world swam out of focus. Another blink cleared it like a windshield wiper as a heavy drop shed onto his eyelash, and he wiped it away with the pad of his thumb. "I don't know what I'm doing. I feel like I let him down, Mr. Schue."
Mr. Schuester dragged the piano bench over between them and straddled the end of it. "Have a seat, Kurt."
He did, more of a slow motion collapse, side on to Mr. Schue, his hands pressed flat together between his thighs.
Leaning forward slightly, hands folded together Mr. Schuester pumped the air once as he tried to force his thoughts in order, obviously trying to avoid saying the wrong thing. "Look, I'm not going to pretend that I know exactly what you're going through, or what the right answer is in your particular situation, but I do have a pretty good idea how you feel. It's got to be one of the worst feelings in the world to know someone you love is scared and hurting and not know what you can do to make it better for them. I know you'd trade places with Blaine, if you could."
"Anything," Kurt stammered. "I'd do anything."
"I know you would," Schue granted, "but let me tell you what you can't do. You can't stop bad days from happening, and you cannot be someone else's..." he paused, obviously searching for the correct word, "barometer of what is and isn't okay for them. They have to be able to ask themselves those questions and deal with that uncertainty on their own. You have to be you and never change that, so you don't become another question they have to answer. If they make mistakes or bad decisions, you can't stop that, but you can be there to deal with the consequences."
"I know that. I mean, on some level I do, I think. But I just feel so helpless!"
"I know you do."
"No! You don't!" Kurt brushed another rogue tear out of his lashes before it could fall. "From the very first moment I met him, Blaine always seemed to be the one with the answers. Whether they were the right answers or not, he always knew what to say to make me feel better. He made me braver. And I don't know how to be that for him. I feel like I keep dropping the ball and letting him down."
"Kurt, I don't remember where I heard it or who said it, but someone once said, 'the bravest thing anyone can do is ask for help.'" Bracing his hands on his thighs, he straightened up with a long-drawn inhale. "If you want to help Blaine the way he helped you, to feel braver, then maybe what you need to do isn't to sit around beating yourself up over how to help him but just to be someone he knows he can rely on when he's ready to ask for it."
Kurt felt his face crumpling before he realized he was leaning forward, arms out. "Thank you, Mr. Schuester," he sniffed into the shoulder of Will's shirt.
"You're welcome." With a pat, he added, "And in the meantime, let's see if we can't scare up a few more red scarves. It is one of our school colors, so I wouldn't be surprised if we don't have some around here somewhere. As long as we find enough for at least the girls, we can keep some semblance of uniformity in our costumes and maybe people won't ask too many questions. Deal?"
"Deal," Kurt nodded, already rising to go in search of red scarves.
"And Kurt?"
"Yeah?"
"Blaine's a good kid. He's smart, and he's extraordinarily lucky to have you in his corner. He's going to be okay."
Kurt wanted to believe that, but he was taking a lot on faith these days. "I don't want him to be just okay, though," he confessed. "I want him to be..." he paused because, 'good, great, successful, amazing,' all came to mind but didn't begin to scratch the surface. He wanted all of those things and more for Blaine; he wanted him to be, "Happy. I want him to be so happy."
Schue patted Kurt on the shoulder. "Baby steps, Kurt. He'll get there again. And I'm going to keep an eye on him for you while you're in New York being awesome."
Kurt hugged Schue one more time, this time sheepishly and without looking him in the eye. He hadn't realized how much he needed to hear that. He left with a part of the weight at least shifted if not lifted entirely off his shoulders. All he'd needed to do was ask for help, and it was given.
Who knew?
-#-
Kurt was feeling a little better, lighter on his feet than he had since waking up that morning to find Blaine's scribbled note about needing to go home for his meds. Of course, he'd be feeling a lot better just as soon as Blaine showed up and he could see for himself that everything was okay between them. They didn't technically have to be at the park until later that afternoon, but as a Congressman, Kurt's dad was sort of the local celebrity of the day. Besides emceeing the parade, Burt judged the pie eating contest and ordered his first 'green' taco ever after cutting the ribbon at the inauguration of Lima's first ever taco truck.
The government called the days when Congress was in session but not actually meeting district work days. The general public called them vacation days. Really, they were the handshaking and baby kissing part of any political career. Some would say that's where they earned their $175,000 a year salary, where they got a feel for the constituents so they could vote accordingly during the days they actually did discuss the agenda. There were fifty-five or so such days in a given year, not including weekends, usually around Federal holidays and the end of summer or early fall. Burt spent most of his taking care of business at the tire shop while Kurt and Finn were both still in school but would probably spend a little more time out of town now. This was a national holiday, though, so he could kind of kill two birds with one stone, be at home and a politician at the same time. Kurt was there for moral support and for photo opportunities, because family was very important to the constituents.
Besides, it kept him busy in some manner that didn't involve checking his phone every fifteen seconds, which is exactly what he was doing when his dad set his taco down, quirked an eyebrow at him and tried to give Kurt a heart condition of his own.
"So, is the Scooby Doo look trending this summer, or did you and Blaine get a little carried away with the catching up last night?"
Kurt was sure his face was as red as the scarf as he narrowly avoided spitting diet Coke out of his nose. His dad patted him on the back with a low chuckle as he gagged and wiped at his eyes.
"Whoa, didn't mean to get you all choked up there, buddy."
"H-how did you know?" Running his finger under the fabric of the scarf, he confirmed that it was still firmly in place.
"Actually, I just took a stab in the dark. You've been staring off into space and checking your phone like you've got a nervous tick or something. I was trying to get a rise out of you. From your reaction, I guess I hit the nail on the head. You got somethin' you wanna talk about, there, kiddo?"
"Dad! Oh my god, No! Definitely not."
"C'mon, kid. You think I didn't know you and Blaine were..."
"Dad!"
"Hell, I've known since I went over to Blaine's to tell him about your NYADA finalist letter. I spent the afternoon hanging out with him and doing sudoku. Imagine my surprise when I was looking for a pen and opened up that drawer in the nightstand..."
"Oh my god, I'm going to die if you don't stop right now."
His dad grabbed him by the shoulder and gave him a shake, laughing heartily. "Take it easy, kid. I'm not mad, just keeping you honest. And you're right. It's none of my business. I know you two will take care of each other. Speaking of...where's Blaine? He's coming to the show, right?"
Clearing his throat, Kurt shook off his momentary mortification to nod. "Yeah. He's coming to watch for moral support and because he helped with the choreography. Mr. Schue offered him a solo if he could prepare something, but he's not quite ready to jump back into that, yet. He should be here soon."
Burt gave a thoughtful chin nod, the corners of his mouth turning down. "And how is he?"
"Since getting out of the hospital, you mean." It was a statement. Just buying time to decide how much he wanted to reveal. He'd already had one heart-to-heart that day and didn't know if he was entirely recovered from that one. "Better, I think. It's kind of hard to say, really. He's been sort of... distant, I guess. I can't tell if it's because his mom and Cooper are constantly hovering around or if he's just needs some time. I'm trying to give him space, but it's honestly killing me."
"Well, it's understandable if he needs space right now. I'm glad you're respecting that."
"But I leave for New York in just over a month, you know? I feel kind of robbed." He leaned his head on his dad's shoulder. "Does that make me a terrible person?"
"No." Burt threw his arm around Kurt's shoulder. "Just the opposite. It means you're a sweet, loving kid who's learning one of the tougher things in life."
"Which is?"
"Which is that sometimes the right thing to do is also the hardest thing to do, but I'm proud of you for trying to put aside your own wants to try to do that right thing. Pretty soon, I'm not going to be able to call you 'bud' or 'kiddo' anymore."
"Just don't default to 'dude.' I've been trying to break Finn of that forever."
"What would you suggest?"
Kurt pondered, a smirk working up the side of his face. "I could live with 'sir.'"
"Oh, Sir Kurt Hummel," Burt huffed. "Is the Queen aware?"
"No, but she will be."
Nodding, Burt turned to look his son in the eye. "And you know what?"
"What?"
"I really believe she will. If she lives long enough."
He was in the middle of giving his dad a giant hug and trying really hard not to cry again, when he spotted Blaine coming up the fairway toward them. "Uh! Blaine!" He leapt up, waving.
"Well, don't jump around like a crazy fool." Burt patted him on the back and gave him a little shove. "Go get your man. I think the mayor is beckoning me again. Carole and I will catch your show."
"Thanks, Dad. I love you."
"Love you, too. And tell Blaine we said 'hi'."
"Will do."
"Get outta here, now. Go!"
-#-
Day one was a practically perfect day. Blaine couldn't have complained. Not really. He had no reason to. Well, not many. The only thing not to love about it hadn't even happened yet. Until then? Best day ever.
It started with Blaine wrapped up in Kurt, sated, loose, and spent in a way that felt earned, unlike the bone weary, waterlogged exhaustion he'd been forced to drag for far too long. He was tired but wrung out in a good way-lighter. He even had a song in his heart.
In therapy, he sometimes found it difficult to say exactly what he was thinking or feeling. Words sometimes had double meanings the way they did in the confusing poetry they made him read in AP English, and the clever twists of phrase were really only clever if they somehow came out true. Maybe it wasn't words he had trouble finding. Maybe it was truth. He didn't know. What he did know was that sometimes when he couldn't just say what was in him to say, a song would come to him, and it made him feel exactly what he meant. He didn't have to know what he was feeling or why, just that he could, and the music made it real, made it true. It tapped into the thrum like it was on the same harmonic. If he sang it, everything made sense. It gave him words. His therapist even let him bring his Ipod and kept an electronic keyboard in the corner of her office just for him. If nothing else, it gave him something to do with his hands, and it made him not hate therapy quite so much.
There was a song for today, reverb. It was Alanis. Another one by Brand New came close, but Alanis hit it perfectly. He wasn't ready to sing it yet, but he'd been humming it on a loop since he got up. Day one, day one…The first verse popped into his head when he was peeling himself out of the bedsheets, the birds already awake outside the window but the day itself still just a soft glow on the horizon. The birds sang it first, but he knew the words. Unsure, unconvincing…They were the first clear thought he'd had in days, a decision he'd been fighting to make. He slept until he could sleep no more, then blinked open his eyes, and it was made. Finally.
That was when he knew it was going to be a great day. This faint and shaky hour…
Or maybe he decided it. Either way, it was true. It would be. For today, he had Kurt in his pores, etched into his skin, under his fingernails, and nothing left to decide. He was going to enjoy every minute of it, right until he couldn't anymore.
He knew, then, for the first time in forever, exactly what he needed to do and when he was going to do it, and knowing was easier than deciding. Knowing was having no one trying to help him decide while also trying to convince him he was deciding for himself. Knowing was just one ping pong ball left in the lottery, and it felt good.
He saw Kurt leap to his feet from where he was seated next to his dad, his hand knocking one of the branches on the maple tree they were picnicking under as he tried to get Blaine's attention. Blaine waved back and picked up his pace but didn't bother picking up his smile until Kurt was just a few paces away. They grasped elbows briefly, the slide of hands up forearms and thumbs stroking over the sensitive skin in the crooks of their arms slightly more intimate than a handshake but not so conspicuous as holding hands.
"Hey, I missed you this morning." Kurt was radiant, as always, even in the slightly ridiculous outfit that made him suspect Rachel had probably designed the costumes for the Spectacular. Who wore an ascot in July, anyway?
"Well, I didn't bring an overnight bag, and all my meds were at home," he dismissed. "Plus, I thought you'd be sleeping in and didn't want to wake you."
Kurt's somewhat noncommittal "Hmm," said he didn't believe that was the whole truth, but he didn't press further, falling into step beside Blaine as they continued down the fairway.
"Guess what?"
"What?"
"There's a polka band in the dance pavillion!"
"Blaine, you can't polka, not with your..."
"No, but you can. I talked to the band leader, and he's going to show me how to play his stumpf fiddle. A stumpf fiddle, Kurt! Can you believe it? I'm going to play and yell, 'dance, chicken, dance,' while you do your best Funky Chicken. And then we're going to post the whole thing on YouTube. It's going to be amazing!"
"No part of that sounds amazing to me," Kurt argued.
"That's because you haven't tried it yet." Blaine took Kurt's hand and leapt forward abruptly enough to nearly drag him off his feet. "Now, c'mon. You trust me, don't you? I know a shortcut!"
Even the very vocal groan of bemusement couldn't entirely camouflage the twinkle in Kurt's eye that told Blaine he was doing everything right. Of course he was. At least he was 'faking it 'til he was pseudo making it,' just like the song. Alanis was a genius. It was day one, and day one was a practically perfect day.
-#-
Sue wasn't purposely stalking the Wee Warbler. First, she never stalked. This was a public venue, and a very tall woman in an Uncle Sam costume was practically a required backdrop. Second, she was there to get dirt on Burt Hummel. School was out for the year. Time to garner dirt for political muckraking. It was an election year, after all. Burt's particular position wasn't on the ballot this time around, but it would be. Oh, it would be, and preparation was key to success. She was convinced her previous loss in their district was entirely the result of the fact that Hummel threw his hat into the race much too late to allow for a proper undermining of his character.
Okay, so she'd been digging for months, and unless some respected scientific journal printed a study that suggested being too loving and supportive as a father could make your kid gay, then she had nothing on Burt Hummel.
And the stupid sequins on this Uncle Sam getup were not doing a thing to deflect the heat of the July sun. She just happened to be standing under the awning of the shooting gallery and behind that tree, because it was the only decent shade she could fit under with her top hat on. That's where she was when she was nearly blinded by the glare of sunlight off a familiar head of overly shellacked helmet hair. That prep school transfer kid was meandering his way down the fairway as if looking intently for something he was a little bit terrified to find. He didn't particularly stand out. Boat shoes and khaki shorts were pretty much standard attire for the occasion. But she had it on good authority—that authority being the dozen or so flyers she'd ripped down—that Schuester's crooning miscreants were doing a show that day, and the few other choir members she'd spotted were all wearing some version of blue shorts and a white Henley.
One of these things was not like the others.
Taking in Blaine Anderson's slightly glazed expression and deviation from New Directions status quo, Sue couldn't help but be intrigued. Something was different about the kid, and not just different from the rest of his peers but different from the way she remembered him, and graduation was only a month ago. His eyes seemed darker, more sunken somehow, even allowing for the angle of the afternoon sun on those ridiculously long eyelashes. (Seriously, in what genetic population was that a mutation that contributed to natural selection in any way?) And even though the area around his eyes seemed darker, the rest of him seemed to have faded, his naturally tan complexion washed out as though he'd spent the last month indoors or under a rock instead of doing any other number of things normal teenaged boys did outdoors on their summer vacations. And what was he doing wandering around the fairgrounds alone? Didn't he have any friends? Just how pathetic was he, and what was he trying to hide? Sue Sylvester and conservative America had a right to know.
The object of her scrutiny was just about past her when his expression changed entirely. Like someone opened the door on the refrigerator, a light flickered on, and his steps adopted a lighter quality. A few seconds later, Porcelain sashayed his way up the fairway, and it was obvious exactly who controlled the light switch on that ex-Warbletoot. She barely suppressed her own gag reflex when she noted the red scarf around Squire Hummel's neck. She knew a blatant hickey cover when she saw one. Apparently the Middle Earth refugee was part vampire. That would explain his lack of suntan and thirst for sparkly Porcelain blood.
Kurt would've never let himself be marked in such a vulgar fashion when he was still with the Cheerios—yet another example of how the arts corrupt our youth.
He didn't even look happy. Even with the wingless land bird chattering incessantly in his ear, Porcelain had substantially less sparkle about him than he'd had at graduation. Something worn out and aching shadowed his cheekbones like the overdone makeup on a runway model. She couldn't help but notice, too, the way he ducked his gaze playfully, blushing and smiling along with whatever Blaine was going on about, but let it all slip when Blaine looked away and Kurt had the chance to let his eyes sweep and linger like he was searching for something only he knew was hidden away. Worry. He was worried. Not only that, it was the worst kind of worry. Lovesickness.
Damn the heart for wanting what the heart wanted.
Damn Sue Sylvester for wanting Porcelain to have whatever Porcelain wanted. She bit her tongue as the hyperactive designer Golden Lhasa Warblerdoodle nearly yanked Kurt's arm out of the socket as he dashed away.
Despite not having actually been hiding, it took her longer to get out of her nook than would've qualified as a graceful exit. By the time she caught up to Tony and Porcelina, Blaine was walloping on some contraption that looked like an entire percussion section made out of Tinker Toys. As if he wasn't making enough of a fool of himself, he seemed to have somehow convinced Kurt to engage in the most flamboyant version of the Funky Chicken dance she had ever seen. Before she could cry obvious emotional exploitation, Kurt spun around, wiggled his little tushy and jumped up clapping.
And laughing hysterically.
Whatever spiritual baggage had been weighing him down fifteen minutes prior, seemed to have been shaken off, and the harder Blaine whacked that stupid stick and stomped it up and down, the faster Kurt danced. When the 'song' ended, he danced his way over to his boyfriend and yanked him out onto the dancefloor with him, the two of them twirling and laughing like they had forgotten where they were.
Luckily for them, Sue hadn't forgotten where they were. When that annoying ice cream bicycle came pedaling down the lane, blaring that stupid Disney reject music, she accidentally walked in front of it and got one of her Uncle Sam suspenders caught on the handlebars, tipping the whole cart over on its side, before yelling "Free ice cream," as the cooler opened up and dumped ice and popsicles all over the sidewalk.
When she looked up again, Blaine and Kurt had discretely removed themselves from the public eye and disappeared once more into the crowd.
-#-
Partly because Burt Hummel had been absconded by the Mayor of Lima himself, and partly because Porcelain and his Wee Warbler were obviously under the influence of some pretty heady teenage hormones that rendered them suddenly incapable of blending in, Sue ended up following them for the rest of the day. For their own protection, of course. Seriously, she didn't know everything that was going on with those two, but it was like suddenly they had decided to give up any pretense of decency and flaunt their long, erect, glitter spewing unicorn horns for the whole of the world—and specifically the ultra-conservative population of Lima, Ohio—to see. By the time they met up with the rest of the New Directions for their performance, she'd caught them cheating at squirt gun races by taking turns siting the gun while the other reached around from behind and pulled the trigger, witnessed Blaine licking the caramel off an apple and then feeding Kurt the apple, and spotted them sneaking in a make out session behind that little RV where they showed filmstrips about Bible verses on the half hour.
At one point she was pretty sure she was being trailed by Security. It was possible that stealing the hammer from the strong man game and using it to knock over the cups at the pitching game had been going a tad too far, but Kurt and Blaine had been trying on novelty sunglasses in one of the merchant tents, and she'd noted more than a few passersby frowning at the way they touched each other's faces and hair and draped themselves over each other in order to fit both their faces into the tiny display mirrors. Seriously, those two seemed to have lost their collective minds.
The worst part of it all wasn't the sickening sweetness of it and how Sue was going to need some major dental work after spending so much time watching the Wonder Twin powers activate all over the place. No, the worst part wasn't the way each one seemed to feed off the laughter of the other, beaming and glowing whenever they forgot to look away in a timely manner. It was the way they looked at each other when they thought the other wasn't looking, something melancholy and aching smothering out the twinkle in their respective eyes like that oil slick effect they'd used in old episodes of "The X-Files."
She began to get the impression via her super highly tuned ninja powers of observation that those two weren't just being careless and irresponsible because they were slaves to their own hyper active teenaged libidos. Something more was going on. If she didn't know better, she'd think they were trying to clear the table before the buffet closed. Which was ridiculous. They were teenagers. Forever might be a ridiculous concept, but those two had far more of it left than anyone she knew.
Or they were dancing around something, each one distracting the other from something neither was willing to address.
Probably a little of each, since teenagers had an uncanny ability to complicate things beyond reason.
When she took a seat in the back row for the glee club performance, she'd begun to think of Kurt and Blaine as Klaine, and even if she'd heard that title whispered in the halls of McKinley before then, she was totally going to take credit for it going forward. As Kurt headed off with the rest of the club and left Blaine parked in the front row next to Emma Pillsbury, the reason for Blaine's attire not matching the rest of the group's became clear. So, he wasn't performing. Her midday protein shake turned rancid in her stomach as she recalled the trip to Nationals and wondered whether the Tiny Dancer was sicker than she knew. True, he was only supposed to perform with New Directions in a limited capacity, but judging by the size of the stage here, she didn't think any of them were going to be dancing to excess.
She sat through Finn Hudson's deplorable rendition of Reo Speedwagon's "Time for Me to Fly," and Asian Number Two's version of "Breakaway," and despite wanting to claw out both her eyes and ears, managed to keep enough of her senses about her to decide there was nothing strenuous enough in either of those routines to prevent a hairy-toed hobbit from participating. Hell, the handicapped kid hadn't even unlocked the wheels on his chair during the last number.
Maybe the buffet was about to close, after all.
-#-
Kurt knew something was up; something was coming, and he couldn't help but recall how well that had worked out for Tony in "West Side Story." He wasn't normally such a cynic—silly, hopeless romantic had worked out fine for him so far—and there was nothing blatantly wrong. If anything, everything was going right, so right, in fact that Kurt had lost count of the number of times Blaine had specifically said, 'best day ever,' even under his breath at times, like it was a mantra instead of an observation.
Not that it wasn't. It was the best day ever, or at least the best day since Blaine got out of the hospital. Other than waking up alone this morning and having a minor freak-out when he caught his first glimpse of the mark on his neck, everything had been wonderful. Too wonderful. Wonderful to excess. And the closer they got to the end of the day, the more Blaine seemed to hang on every moment. Kurt didn't miss the way he leaned closer, breathed deeper, held gazes entirely too long as if trying to mentally file away every second into just the right corner of his mind, tracing and retracing the pathway that brought him there so he could go back without getting lost. Kurt almost felt guilty dragging his hand out of Blaine's when he had to go backstage to get ready for the show, leaving Blaine to keep Miss Pillsbury company in the front row.
By the time he made it backstage, he'd already half made up his mind to go back and get Blaine and drag him up onto the stage with them. It wasn't like he didn't know all the songs and most of the choreography, but that wasn't a close enough recipe for perfection to make it worth the risk, wouldn't keep Blaine from beating himself up if he so much as sang an 'ooh' instead of an 'aah.' And the blocking was pretty tight. The more he thought about it, the more Kurt knew that, as wrong as it felt to leave Blaine sitting in the audience, bringing him up on stage would be an entirely selfish move on Kurt's part. He was actually okay with that, to a degree. He didn't owe Lima, Ohio anything, and he was pretty sure most of the New Directions felt the same way, especially since more than half of them were now graduated and moving on.
But he did owe Blaine. He owed Blaine everything, too much to put him on the spot like that.
So, he left Blaine in the audience, wearing the ridiculously cheap and adorable, red, white, and blue plastic sunglasses they'd bought right before that crazy Uncle Sam character had gone berserk and torn up the fairway. Instead of harmonizing with him, Kurt got to watch him mouth the words to every song, beginning with Finn's Reo Speedwagon selection, "Time for Me to Fly," and continuing with Artie's solo rendition of "Control." And even after the sun went down and the audience started trickling out on their way to score seats for the fireworks show at the main stage, the sunglasses stayed on.
Halfway through their last number, Blaine seemed to forget the lyrics, even though he'd been the one to suggest "Firework," in the first place, and there wasn't a Katy Perry lyric he didn't have by rote. When he tipped forward, elbows on his knees, and rested his forehead atop his clasped hands, it was all Kurt could do to stop himself from jumping off the stage, but he saw Miss Pillsbury lean forward and whisper in his ear, a hand between his shoulder blades, and saw him nod an affirmation that seemed to satisfy her enough to return to her upright position after handing him a bottle of water.
When the set finally finished and Kurt hopped down, Blaine seemed fine, even if his eyes were just a little too bright once he tucked the sunglasses into the front of his shirt. His shoulders had squared, and his chin was held up, if a little too purposely so. When Kurt reached him, Blaine jumped out of his seat and met him with both hands extended, taking Kurt's in a double pump as he stroked over knuckles with the pad of his thumb.
"That was great, Kurt," he beamed. "Really great. You were perfect."
"Well, only thanks to your tutoring," Kurt dismissed. "Without that, I'm sure Finn would have decapitated one of us with his mic stand during the helicopter twirl."
"No, no," Blaine denied. "You guys were perfect. The best." His lips trembled for a moment. "B-best day ever." Searching Kurt's face, something a little hopeful but desperate swam in the thick air between them. "You had a good day, today, didn't you, Kurt?"
"It was amazing." Kurt took in the slight shiver vibrating through the entirety of Blaine's countenance. "How about you, Blaine? You looked a little upset during the last number," he pressed gently.
"I know," Blaine said. "And no, it's been great. I guess I just didn't want it to end."
"Well, it's not over yet. The fireworks haven't even started. We can head up to grab seats if you want to. They should be starting soon."
"Would you mind, if we just stayed here? We'll be able to see most of the air show, anyway, even if we miss some of the ground display."
Confused, but accommodating, because he'd seen the same fireworks display every year of his life since he was born, "Sure. We can do that."
"That'll be enough, you think?"
"Enough for what, Blaine?"
"Just... enough. Will it be, do you think?"
That niggling little feeling of dread that had been clawing at Kurt since that morning dug in deeper to the point of physical pain. In his mind's eye, he was Alice, and Blaine was just out of reach, frantically trying to hold back the ticking hands of a giant pocket watch. He wondered where Blaine felt he had to be, if he knew that 'better' wasn't a destination he could just pencil in on his itinerary. Whatever train of thought Blaine was chasing around in his mind, that was a rabbit hole Kurt didn't dare follow him down.
"C'mon. Let's sit up here." The band had left some folding chairs stacked against the far wall of the shell. Kurt dragged two over and popped them open a few feet back from the edge of the stage. They each straddled one, facing up the hill and between the bending trees toward the open sky. Elbows folded across the backs of the chairs, their thighs butted against each other, and Blaine hooked one ankle around Kurt's. A giant willow tree whispered in the breeze beside the amphitheater seating area. The humid summer air collected under its limbs, and in it, fireflies began to flicker, completely unaware of the day's chaos that preceded their nightly dance.
For a while, it was enough—enough for then, enough for now.
They sat in silence until the first fireworks began to pop overhead, and while the beginning of the show was always a little bland, Kurt didn't miss the way Blaine's eyes stayed fixed on the ground, on the bending grass and its sparking fireflies, the manmade flashes above just so much garish glare that made the shadows around his eyes infinitely deeper. Under cover of darkness, Blaine let any pretense of okay slip away, and he slid along with it, unaware of just how much the fireworks revealed.
"Blaine, you're shaking. What's wrong? And don't say nothing, because I know something's been bothering you ever since you got out of the hospital. You've been avoiding me or keeping me so busy that we don't talk. I've been trying to give you your space, but whatever it is, it's eating you up, and you're doing a terrible job of hiding it."
Blaine's gaze darted up, fixing on Kurt's as pale blue exploded in the sky above them, giving the wells around his eyes an icy gleam. "I have to tell you something, but I... I don't know how."
"You can tell me anything, Blaine. Whatever it is, we'll work it out. We always do."
"That's just it, Kurt. It's not something we can work out. It's something I have to." He dropped his chin, seeming to stare at the back of the chair and cleared his throat. "In therapy, when I sometimes can't say what I need to say, my therapist lets me sing." He reached across the space between them and took Kurt's hand in his. "I've had this song playing in the back of my head all day. Will you sing with me, Kurt?"
Swallowing hard, Kurt nodded. "If I know it."
"You do," Blaine promised. He squeezed Kurt's hand tighter. "And no matter what, don't let go until the end. Okay?"
His nod was abrupt, a distinct upward tilt of his chin, just one, and then his gaze leveled as he reached across and covered their clasped hands with his other for emphasis. Heavy drops of rain began to fall, lazy and intermittent, each disappearing in a tiny poof of dust on the ground, but they were covered by the roof of the shell, the moment only heavier with the added weight of the air around them.
Reborn and shivering
Spat out on new terrain
Unsure unconvincing
This faint and shaky hour
Blaine was right. Kurt did know it. How could he not? Alanis, after all. And it made sense. Of course this was how Blaine must be feeling, and of course, he'd never say it except in song. His hand tightened in Blaine's, a silent thanks for sharing, for letting Kurt in on something so private, even as something about the song choice hit him like the first sip off a bottle of Coke, the fizz burning behind his soft palate and into the floor of his brain. His lungs seized around the choke of it even as he started to sing along.
Day one, day one
Start over again
Step one, step one
I'm barely making sense
Funky chickens and stumpf fiddles, lazy makeout sessions and cheap sunglasses, a little arbitrary, perhaps, ecclectic for sure, but entirely Blaine. Kurt searched his gaze, lost at how to express that it all made perfect sense to him. He understood. He thought he did. He wanted to so badly.
For now I'm faking it
Till I'm pseudo making it
And then he understood.
Best day ever... enough.
Blaine was making it good, making sure Kurt had the time of his life, sucking the marrow out of every second himself, because the reality of the situation was, it would never be enough, and their moment was about to end.
From scratch, begin again
But this time I as I and not as we
(Not As We, Alanis Morissette)
"Are you breaking up with me?" A sob, and Kurt broke his promise not to let go.
"Kurt... I need..." Blaine's throat worked in spasms, words barely dragging out.
"You are! You're breaking up with me. Oh god, I think I'm going to be sick." Stage whispered in disbelief and anguish, a desperate hope for the words to be swallowed up in the cloying humidity and disappear, untrue. The rain fell just a little harder, not faster, but the drops heavier, overfilled and membrane stretched. Behind Blaine, the fireflies sparkled, taking refuge under the fronds of the willow tree and up into its draping canopy in a steady progression to the top. Above that, fireworks warred against the darkness and punctuated the dead stillness of the air with cannon booms.
"No! I mean... not breaking up. Just... a break, from us." Blaine pulled, and Kurt let himself be drawn in, let his head rest against Blaine's as Blaine continued to talk into the crook of his neck, stubble a harsh scratch against his racing pulse. "I'm sick, Kurt, and most days right now it's all I can do to survive." A shuddering breath. "You can't be here."
Shaking and halfway to wrung out, "I won't let you push me away. I want to be here for you."
Blaine pulled back, bottom lip curling around his teeth as he set his jaw. "You are, but while you're here for me, I'm not here for me, and you're not there for you." He took Kurt by the shoulders, and Kurt tried to look away, at the fireflies pluming into the upper canopy of the tree. "I have to spend all my time getting better. Every second of every day I'm looking at myself, questioning what I'm feeling, what's me, what's... sickness, how to tell the difference. It's all I can do to figure out me, but I have to do it."
"This is because of your mom, isn't it? And Cooper?" A sudden clarity, something Cooper had hinted at but never said outright, how they were worried about his relationship with Blaine. "They don't know us, Blaine. They don't know what we can do together."
"No," a sharp shake of his head, "it's not them. And it's not about us. Not really. Kurt, there is no us, if I don't know me. There's no, 'what am I going to do with my life,' no 'where am I going to end up,' no 'how am I going to get there.' A relationship is two people, not one person and one giant question mark. I can't even think about the future, Kurt. I can't dream. And you need to dream! I need you to be able to dream without me holding you back." He raised a hand, sensing Kurt's protest bubbling to the surface and putting a lid over it. "And I need you to keep me in that dream and believe I'll be there when we wake up and it's all real and we're together."
"So, you're not...?"
"You said it first, Kurt," Blaine cupped his hands around Kurt's face, fixing their eyes on one another. "I'll never say goodbye to you. Especially not now. I need you. I'll always need you, but I need to not be 'us' right now, so I can love you better later."
Kurt couldn't breathe, his chest simultaneously bursting because Blaine was doing this for them, was trying to be the bigger person and willing to do what he needed to get better, and yet collapsing because he couldn't need this, couldn't need Kurt to carve him out of his life and go on ahead as if his entire being hadn't been tethered into loving and being loved by Blaine. Blaine couldn't need that, and Kurt didn't want that.
But he could do it.
In the moment, he knew his resistance was entirely selfish, because he'd already archived in his head all the stories he was going to tell in New York about his amazing boyfriend back home, because he didn't want to have the awkward conversations with his parents and his friends about what it meant to be 'on a break,' didn't know if he was ready to have that conversation with himself. So, he let Blaine do the talking, let him talk them into it, even though his entire body shook in protest, a silent scream battering the inside of his skull, a part of him hoping Blaine would talk himself in a circle and come back to where they began, forget they were breaking apart and just fall back together the way they were.
Above them, the fireworks show had reached its climax, the entire sky lit up, brighter still for the backdrop of thick rain clouds billowing in behind it. "I won't give up on you."
"And I won't give up on us."
"Promise?" A plea and an acquiescence, room for hope, a dare to dream—definitely not goodbye.
"Promise." A vow.
And then all was decided except when—when this was over, when to begin again. So they stayed, hands clasped and gazes fixed on the firefly tree, as if holding on would forestall the passing of time, and the when would never come. The rain grew steadily more insistent, pulling down the coiled smoke of the celebration above and washing it out of the sky around them, the acrid gunpowder stench of the moment clinging into and around them. It stayed long after the lightning streaked in behind the smoke and prodded them apart. It stayed even after they no longer could.
-TBC