Everlasting: i
For some, time passes slowly. An hour can seem an eternity. For others, there’s never enough. For the Hummels, it didn’t exist.
Time is like a wheel, turning and turning, never stopping. And the woods are the center, the hub of the wheel.
It began the first week of summer, a strange and breathless time, when accident, or fate, brings lives together. When people are led to do things they’ve never done before. On this summer’s day, not so very long ago, the wheel set lives in motion in mysterious ways. It set Carole Hummel out for the village of Lima, to meet her two sons as she did once every ten years.
SUMMER. LIMA, OHIO. 1914
Going into town is not something she or her husband make a habit of doing. They make almost everything they need by hand, down to their bread and butter, and anything that needs to be bought in town is simply a luxury. Luxuries are not something her family can afford, although it has little to do with money.
Lima is a small town, one that she has watched spring up from practically nothing, and the woods through which she travels provide a thick border on its western edge. Yet every time she makes this journey, it always seems to get shorter, the trees always thinning far sooner than she remembers.
It’s a fact that sits ill in the pit of her stomach.
Ten years can really change a place, and Lima, as small as it is, is absolutely no exception. Carole can see buildings where no buildings had been before, and places she had once known no longer seem to exist. A loud noise sounds to her right and she starts, hand fluttering to her chest, to her heart, as an automobile stutters past her. The world is changing, and quickly, and Carole isn’t sure if she’s ready for it.
Despite the fact that the Hummels had given up all things superfluous quite some time ago, Carole always takes it upon herself to do as much shopping as possible during these little trips. She doesn’t make them often, after all.
It’s almost always necessities; a spindle, if hers is looking a little more worn down than usual, and perhaps some new cookware, because it will never really go out of fashion. She eyes a few other things-tea bags, bolts of fabric, clothing. They’re things her family doesn’t need and, although the temptation is great, she shifts her gaze and continues on her way.
She picks her way through various storefronts, bartering and acquiring like she’s always done. Carole recognizes no one, and no one recognizes her, and, as always, that is for the best. Her small talk and easygoing manner leave good impressions, but no one will remember her in a good day’s time, much less years down the line.
It comes as she’s loading purchases into the cart. Even amongst the hustle and bustle of the tiny town, which seems to swallow everything else up, it’s as clear as a bell to her.
“Ma!”
Her head whips around and a smile spreads instantly across her face. She quickly leaves her load, taking a few steps so that her arms can wrap around the young man rushing towards her.
“Oh, Finn.” She pulls her son in close-a feat considering how much taller he is than her, but he wraps his awkward arms around her and grins. Carole turns her head, her watery smile growing larger as she takes in the second slim figure approaching them. Releasing her son, she pulls the other boy graciously into a hug.
“Kurt.” The greetings are simple; so simple, Kurt doesn’t even utter anything back, just hugs. If, when they pull apart, he looks a little redder around the eyes, his stepmother and brother know better than to mention it.
“Tell me, tell me,” Carole insists, walking them over to the cart. They gratefully deposit their own loads, Finn turning his attention to the black mustang that he’d left behind in Ohio. Dropping her voice and casting a glance around, Carole looks at Kurt with a motherly worry in her eyes that Kurt still isn’t used to, even after all this time. “Did you go to Germany?”
Stilling, he forces a smile and gives a tight nod.
“Passed through New York on the way back, too.” Carole doesn’t respond, but looks at him intently, lips pursed. “There’s… It’s just more of the same.” His voice is quiet, sad, and Carole reaches for his hand.
“One day, dear.” Carole gives his hand a squeeze and Kurt gives her a tight smile in return, although whatever she’s promising seems to fall on deaf ears. “Where else? Quickly-don’t leave your mother waiting.” Her smiles and eagerness bleed through and all thoughts of their hushed conversation flee, lessening the tension that Kurt had so obviously been holding in his shoulders.
“Paris,” Kurt replies simply, his smile turning sincere, and he pulls something from the pouch at his hip. He holds it out for Carole, who takes it in her cupped hands and stares.
“Really?” She gasps, marveling at the tiny memento.
“We thought that, since you and Burt couldn’t go with us, we’d bring France to you.” Finn approaches again, pulling his mother into a tight side-hug as she laughs jovially.
“My own Eiffel Tower,” Carole muses, holding it up to the light, and Kurt grins at his appropriate gift choice. “Now we’ll always have a piece of France right here in Ohio with us.” Finn chuckles while Kurt rolls his eyes fondly, and Carole slips the miniscule monument into the pocket of her dress. For a minute, she looks at the two of them with a quiet sort of sadness before pulling them close again. “Oh, boys, I missed you so much.”
Their responses are mumbled into hair and shoulders, accompanied with squeezes back before Carole releases them. She dabs at her eyes with the cuff of her sleeve, sending Finn into a hovering frenzy over his mother’s well-being. Kurt shoos him away, slipping an arm around his stepmother.
“She just missed us, Finn. No need to suffocate her with attention,” Kurt admonishes as they help Carole up into the cart. Finn’s shoulders slump slightly and Carole laughs.
“After ten years, I think I could do with some attention from my boys.”
On the outskirts of Lima, in the shadow of the woods, stands a tall, regal house that is boxed with a rather intimidating iron fence. It is the home of the wealthy landowner, Michael Anderson, the leaseholder of Lima and the surrounding countryside, and his rather small, but prestigious family. The Andersons are society, there is no doubt about that, and anyone who wants to be someone in Lima, Ohio, wants an in with the Andersons.
The easiest way, or so some assume, is through Michael Anderson’s single heir.
“Blaine!”
He doesn’t move. If he moves, that means he has to acknowledge that he is being called, and to acknowledge it would make it acceptable (which it most certainly isn’t). So instead, he continues to lie there, back pressed into the dew-riddled morning grass, eyes trained on the dapples of sunlight breaking through the trees.
“Blaine!”
Every time his mother calls it, Blaine realizes more and more how much he hates his name. It’s easy, really, after hearing it called in such a way for seventeen years (even if he can’t remember all seventeen, he is sure it was always called in such a way). But even if his name wasn’t just another order for his mother to scream, he would still dislike it. Even being an Anderson doesn’t provide him with the opportunity to escape a name like “Blaine” and the torment that accompanies it. Society dictates that such behavior is improper, of course, and no one dares scorn an Anderson in the public eye, but Blaine has heard the whispers and suffered the looks. Society might be all about propriety and rules, but it has never been very welcoming.
“Blaine!”
His mother is certainly insistent today.
“I need a new name,” he muses quietly to the nature around him. Unlike anything else in his life, at least the grass and the trees and the wind actually listen to him. “One that isn’t worn out from being called so much.”
“Blaine!”
He knows that tone. With a sigh, he sits up, brushing away the water droplets that cling to his morning clothes before heaving himself to his feet. Blaine knows that his mother will not be happy with him; she never is when he sneaks out of the house at sunrise.
“Coming, mother!”
Best he go reluctantly than be dragged by his ear after his mother truly loses her patience.
Blaine Anderson, at the tender age of seventeen, is Lima, Ohio’s most eligible bachelor. Not that Blaine particularly cares for this title, but it has been given to him all the same. He is well aware that such popularity comes from his last name and the size of his inheritance more than anything else, no matter how often girls seem to fawn over him.
Blaine is educated, or at least as educated as one can become in rural Ohio, and he has been raised to be an absolute gentleman. It’s no surprise, really, that he is being herded around to parties and tea with every eligible lady within a thirty mile radius; Blaine knows he has been buffed and polished into this person from the moment he was born.
Since he was ten, Blaine’s life has almost always been the same constant routine.
He is normally awoken by a maid promptly at eight in the morning. This had been his first point of rebellion, when he began rising before the maids and the sun. It was one of the only freedoms his mother still allowed him, although it was with great reluctance.
He is then assisted in dressing, even though he’s more than capable of dressing himself (perhaps the actual clothing selection is a bit advanced for him, but is matching really that important?), outfitted in expensive waistcoats and trousers, a blazer or sack coat on hand for whatever his schedule entails that day. His hair, an unruly mane of curls that his own mother both loves and loathes, is slicked into near nonexistence in a process that is painful, time- consuming, and ridiculously boring.
Breakfast with his mother and father is practically scripted, right down to the time his father pulls out his pocket watch and insists it’s time to head into town. Then it’s piano lessons, although Blaine is already more than proficient, and tea with his mother and grandmother.
The afternoon is always full of entertaining.
His mother takes him to garden parties, where he mingles with other young gentlemen (many he considers friends, but who are all forced behind the same façades as he is) and watches the young ladies play croquet with faked amusement. He is sometimes encouraged to play golf with some of the other boys, quiet and proper and not able to move freely in his pressed blazer. There is too much tea and too many crowds of gossiping girls fanning themselves as Blaine shifts uncomfortably behind his practiced smile.
In the past few months, since Blaine has turned seventeen, his mother has also taken it upon herself to play matchmaker (a game that Blaine quickly discovered he hates). It isn’t rare to find himself coerced into walks or picnics or dancing with different young ladies against his own volition, and Blaine finds it easier to play along with his mother’s whims than to try to go against them.
For the last several weeks, her attentions (and, by default, his) have been focused on a Miss Rachel Berry, whose father owns the only bank in Lima and thus holds quite a bit of societal power already. Blaine is unsure if that plays into the match at all, but it certainly makes Rachel “eligible” in his mother’s eyes. They often take walks through the garden, her chaperone shadowing them as is only proper, or sometimes she will be invited to afternoon tea.
Blaine will smile, kiss her hand, and listen attentively as is expected, but that’s as far as propriety directs him. Rachel is a lovely girl, of course, even if her smile is a bit too wide to be trustworthy and she speaks more than is normally acceptable. At least he doesn’t need to worry about making conversation during their meetings; she makes enough for a room full of people all on her own.
Come evening, he will again join his parents for dinner. If he is prompted, he will speak, but will otherwise keep quiet and listen as his father recounts his day in town. If it is Tuesday, he will join his father in meeting with the other notable men in town while they drink brandy and smoke cigars, (activities that hold no interest for Blaine) and gossip like old women. Most nights, he is free to pursue his own activities and, in the summer especially, he is almost always outside.
For Blaine Anderson, one thing is true: the heat of summer is not nearly as stifling as the formality of his life. With every passing day, the feeling grows stronger. He is coming closer to the end of something, and moving towards the beginning of something new.
Change is in the air. It is only a question of when.
It is unusual when Blaine’s mother clears their schedule for the day. There are no golf games to be played, no garden parties to attend, and no unbearably long listening sessions with Rachel. For once, Blaine is sure he’ll have an afternoon to himself. Maybe he’ll finally take a walk in the woods like he’s always wanted to do, or perhaps he’ll even go into town. Maybe Nicholas or Jeffrey are available and they could do something they’ll truly enjoy?
Of course, he should have known better.
“It’s my turn to host tea this weekend, Blaine, and I will not do so without the proper pastries.” Because pastries are high on his mother’s list of priorities, right after corsets, gossip, afternoon tea, and grandchildren (in fact, pastries might even come before grandchildren-he isn’t entirely certain). Why his mother needs him to pick out pastries, he doesn’t really understand.
“Really, Blaine,” she admonishes while adjusting her bonnet (ugly things, bonnets), “no woman runs errands without an escort. Surely I’ve taught you better.”
He should be grateful, perhaps. It is not often that Blaine actually goes into town. If his mother wasn’t so particular about her pastries, he is positive she would send one of their many maids to pick them out. In fact, that’s what his mother normally does. Perhaps the summer season is being particularly boring and she needs to find new ways to entertain herself or this impending tea is far more important than all the others. The idea wrenches knots in Blaine’s stomach and he tries to push the thought away.
They are one of the only families in or near Lima that can afford a car-he is sure the Berrys have one as well, and maybe a few of the other upper-class families. It should be amusing, the way people scurry out of the way as they drive into town, kicking up the dust in the road. If Blaine were truly an Anderson, he would sneer at the awe that strikes the people’s faces as they pass by. Really, he is far too busy staring at the horses and the buggies to care about the way people are staring at him (and isn’t it a sad day indeed when he is struck speechless by the sight of a pack animal).
“Don’t wander,” his mother warns him as they step out of the car. Blaine is almost too busy looking around, taking in the worn storefronts and breathing in the scent of bread, and flowers, and people. He’s never felt so-
“Blaine!”
His attention snaps back to his mother immediately, the neutral mask of the good, well-mannered son snapping onto his face easily after years of use.
“Just. Wait here.” Her eyes cast around uneasily, as if it is risky to leave her practically adult son on the wooden walkway outside of Mr. Ryerson’s bakery. He resists the urge to roll his eyes until her back is turned and her bustled skirts disappear through the door.
And so Blaine waits, leaning against the storefront, ignoring the way he suddenly wants anything and everything all at once. It is new, for him, and perhaps a bit too much at once. His eyes flick around almost nervously, casting glances at all there is to see far too quickly, as if he only has so long to drink it all in (and doesn’t he?). His ears strain, picking up the symphony of sounds that buzz around him-it’s hardly music, really just a low, gentle buzz, but it fills him in a way that the keys of a piano never have. And the scents-those are something Blaine should be able to comprehend. All of them are familiar in some way or another, but never together in this way, never all at once.
Perhaps it should be alarming, how much Blaine is suddenly addicted to this feeling. There is no word for it-at least, no word that he knows. It is on the tip of his tongue; a vagrant thought that is constantly eluding him. A nagging sensation seems to pull at the base of his neck, the muscles in his legs bunching in anticipation. Blaine wants to run. He wants to run in a way he hasn’t in many, many years and the sudden desire seems to root him in place. Wanting to move and being unable to, Blaine grits his teeth, his entire body prickling.
Not that anyone would know. No one ever knew. If Blaine wanted to run, to run far away from Lima and never, ever look back, not a single person would be able to guess it. He’s good at that, he realizes. Even with his muscles coiled and ready for action, he still smiles, tipping his head in greeting, and looking ever the gentleman.
It’s everything, all at once, that proves to be too much. It’s the way yells and laughter fade into the buzz that he so thoroughly enjoys, and the way his eyes can’t focus and stay anywhere for very long. So, when an object skims past his leg, drawing his attention in a way that is utterly foreign to him, he is taken by surprise (and when was the last time that had truly happened?).
“Hey, mind giving us a hand?”
He glances up, shielding his eyes from the glare of the mid-afternoon sun despite the bowler hat fit snugly on his head. It’s too hot for hats, but fashion, unfortunately, is not dictated by the weather. Blaine still has to wear a sack coat over his collared shirt and waistcoat, looking twice his age and being incredibly sticky and uncomfortable at the same time.
Bending down, Blaine dutifully fetches the object resting by his foot. A softball-he recognizes it easily enough, even if he hasn’t seen one in… To be honest, he can’t remember how long. He throws it up and down in his hand a bit, eyes following the movement as if it marvels him (and maybe it does, just a little).
“You gonna give that back to us or what? We got a game to play!”
This time, Blaine’s eyes are drawn to the scene in front of him. How had he not noticed it before? A group of boys, boys his age, are gathered around playing softball. Jackets are thrown in the dirt with a complete lack of care for the garments, serving as makeshift bases, and one of the boys swings a roughly-made bat in his hand.
Blaine has never seen any of these boys before. They aren’t the sort that come play golf on the lawn, or talk pleasantly about absolutely nothing over the course of hours. Even if their clothes aren’t enough of an indication (poorly-constructed, poorly-cared for, immensely out-of-date), they hold themselves differently. These are boys who have not been scolded for slouching at the dinner table. They have not spent grueling hours mastering table etiquette. They’ve probably never had to wait outside of the bakery while their mother nitpicks over pastries, and they certainly don’t require a servant to help them get dressed.
His hand grips the ball tightly, as if it is his only connection to this world that is oh-so-far from his own.
“Sure. Here.”
He tosses it over, relief washing through him as it is easily caught by the closest boy. No fumble, no weak attempt at a throw, no lack of distance. Perhaps he isn’t so sheltered after all. Blaine nearly feels himself smiling, his heart picking up pace. Maybe he can join them? It has been years, of course, but it can’t be too hard, can it? Who knows how long his mother will take, what with detailing the types of bread she wants and customizing every single little cake-
“That’s Anderson, isn’t it?”
Whatever hopes he’s gathering are dashed for the second time that day.
The boy holding the bat is looking at him, a news cap pulled firmly over his head and practically blocking his eyes from view. It is almost as if that name, that one single name, changes everything. Pairs of eyes look at him differently, now. No longer is he the random stranger who had tossed the ball, no longer is he Blaine. He’s Blaine Anderson, and that changes absolutely everything.
“Gracing us with your presence, Your Highness?”
The mask cracks and Blaine blanches, insulted, and it smarts in a way he can’t comprehend.
“Bet that’s his car, too. Had to come and rub it in all of our faces.”
No.
“Just coming to watch the little people scamper around like ants.”
He isn’t like that.
“Look at that suit? Bet you I could sell that and feed my family for a month.”
He isn’t like his father.
“Surprised he even threw our ball back.”
He never asked for this.
“Don’t he got servants for that?”
He never wanted any of this.
“What’s the matter, Mr. Moneybags? You and your fancy suit leave the lapdogs at home today?”
The laughter punctures like bullet wounds. Maybe worse but, until he gets shot, he won’t be able to know. There’s that urge again, the coiling of muscles in his legs. Blaine wants to run. He wants to duck his head, to hide away, to crawl back into the world that at least accepts him. But his knees lock and he stands there, facing them down.
Something new crawls at the edge of his tongue and, with a raised eyebrow, his hands move deftly to remove his coat.
“Gentlemen. I believe there’s a much better way to handle this.”
The persona comes back easy, like breathing. It will always be there for him, without fail, when there’s nothing else to hide behind.
“No, no. Those are far too large for teacakes,” Grace Anderson sighs, turning to look away as if the offer is far below her. The smile on the baker’s face flickers for a moment, before it’s back full-force and fake as ever.
“Of course, Mrs. Anderson, of course.”
Mr. Ryerson, the only baker within decent distance of Lima, is an odd sort of gentleman. His clothing choices are eccentric and often the source of gossip, and he scarcely wears hats, his balding head something to parade about rather than hide. He hasn’t always been in Lima, but the “when” and “where from” of his arrival are answered in a handful of stories that never seem to match. The baker would just smile in a way that often made one’s skin crawl, shake his head, and go about his day.
Mrs. Anderson isn’t fond of him in the slightest, which is why she almost never makes the trip herself. But this is important and really, she should have ordered out to Westerville for her teacakes.
“Unfortunately, this is the smallest-”
Mrs. Anderson’s loud, exasperated sigh cuts him off from going any further.
“These won’t do. None of these will do. Really, why is it so hard to entertain in this town?”
Mr. Ryerson’s smile only grows with his increasing annoyance.
“I was hoping for some petit fours?” Her eyes eagerly scan the display cases and the shelves laden with bread, as if something useful might make itself known at any moment. This time, Mr. Ryerson does not attempt to hide his scowl.
“Well, perhaps you should look somewhere else. France, maybe? I’m sorry, sweetheart, but in case you hadn’t noticed… This is Ohio.”
Stepping back, Mrs. Anderson looks at the baker in shock. How dare he speak to her that way? To her. The wife of Michael Anderson, the man who practically built Lima up from its foundations? And perhaps that is a bit of a stretch since her husband’s family had started the project generations before, but who doesn’t use lies to promote themselves every once in awhile?
“In that case, you must have no need for my patronage or my husband’s money. Good day.” She turns on her heel with a dramatic flourish of her skirts, but is stopped almost immediately by the baker’s call of “wait!”
“Now, now. There might not be a high demand for such delicacies out here, but that doesn’t mean I can’t make an exception for you, Mrs. Anderson.” The smile is back again, his voice dripping with insincere charm that makes him more disconcerting than persuasive.
Interested again, Mrs. Anderson turns on her own charming smile and turns back to him, drawing out her purse.
“Well then, I do believe we can come to some sort of arrangement. Now, if possible, I’d like-”
“Blaine Anderson, you’ve gotta be kidding me!”
“There’s no way!”
This must be what freedom feels like.
If there’s any feeling for it, Blaine is sure that this is it. The coils that have slowly been tensing over the last several years suddenly unwind, and he’s running. He’s running, and he’s laughing, and he feels better than he has in a very long time. In fact, Blaine is pretty sure that he doesn’t want it to stop, sure that he will never stop running now that he’s had the chance to start.
“Go Blaine, go!”
“You can do it! Go Blaine!”
It’s surreal to go from being taunted one moment to being urged on the next. Maybe he should feel angrier, but he’s far too busy having fun to think about something like that. His heart thuds against his ribs, there is so much adrenaline coursing through his blood, and sweat beads persistently along his hairline and neck. He can’t even remember where he put his hat and jacket and, frankly, he can’t be bothered to care.
He half-slides in a flourish onto “home plate,” dust kicking up behind him and he’s suddenly surrounded by a throng of boys congratulating him. There is shock there, but not from him. Shock that the Anderson’s son can do something like play softball with boys whose fathers work on farms or cobble shoes. The inclusion seeps deeply into him and he realizes that this feeling is far better than running. Blaine wants to wrap himself up in it, to let it sink deeply into his bones so he can never forget it. In the span of five minutes, he has become the happiest he has ever been in his life.
“Blaine Anderson!”
His laughter fades, his face becomes guarded, and his eyes are wide as he turns in the now- dispersing group of boys to face his mother. Despite all of her beauty, she’s a force to be reckoned with, and Blaine can hear muttered sympathies as the boys retreat and leave him to deal with her.
So, he does what he can. Straightens his shirt, settles the sleeves back around his wrists, fetches his coat and hat, and tries without much success to dust all of the dry dirt from his pants.
She doesn’t speak to him as they approach the car, nor does she utter a word on the drive back. When they return, she turns to give him one long, careful look and then sighs heavily.
“We really did raise you better, Blaine.”
And that’s that.
She disappears into the house without once mentioning tea or an engagement or Rachel Berry. It should be a good feeling, but Blaine can’t stop the way her words sink into his stomach like a branding iron. He may have been happy, but it has only led to his mother being disappointed in him.
The Hummels have learned to be careful people. They have lived in many places, but they have lived the longest in a cabin that Burt built at the edge of a lake. It’s hard to see most of the time, shrouded by the woods around it, and is the perfect place for a family with a secret to hide.
“They tried to teach Finn to dance.” Kurt grins, folded onto their humble couch as his gangly stepbrother attempts to twirl Carole across their small living room. It’s quite a sight, Finn’s legs tangling up and Carole doing more of the leading than her own son. Burt just sits by, amused and shaking his head.
“I see they didn’t get very far,” Carole teases, and Finn glares at her.
“No, Ma, really, I got this. Just watch.”
He straightens up for just a moment, and then they’re both laughing again. Kurt watches with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes and, as they finally begin moving again, he stands and slips away.
It isn’t long before his father finds him, not that Kurt had expected anything less. He turns to look at him with slightly-raised eyebrows, arms crossed, while Kurt stares out the window at the lake. They’re quiet for a few moments, father and son standing shoulder-to-shoulder, before Burt finally clears his throat.
“Carole mentioned you went to Germany.”
Kurt stills, but gives a jerky nod.
“Did you, I mean… Could they…” He looks away for just a moment, as if whatever he’s trying to say can’t easily be said.
“No. No, I couldn’t even see someone.” Kurt’s voice is quiet and he refuses to look at his father. “I did some reading while we were over there, but it’s still just… Theories. Ridiculous, philosophical theories.” Eyes narrowed, he tightens his hold on himself. “Read about what happened in New York, though.” His voice lowers even more as he sends a meaningful glance at his dad, who in turn just nods solemnly.
“You never know for sure, kid, but there’s got to be-”
Kurt just shakes his head, his lips pressed into a thin line.
“There isn’t, Pa. There isn’t a place for people like me. Not now, and maybe not ever.” Which hurts, he has to admit. Because ever is an awfully long time to not be himself, to be different and to be punished for it.
He finally turns from the window, looking back at Carole and Finn as they laugh and dance and tell stories from the last ten years. Kurt’s own smile is forlorn and bitter, as if he is remembering years past that he only wishes he could hold close to him again.
“War’s coming,” he mentions offhandedly and, again, his father simply nods. “Finn expressed an interest in going.” Kurt knows that Burt will wear a grim look at the news, as if he isn’t expecting anything less but is still not comforted by the fact.
“Likes to get away, doesn’t he?”
Kurt just nods, his eyes following their dance without really focusing on their faces or their laughter.
“So do you.”
Kurt nods again, and his father sighs.
“Just because I don’t believe it doesn’t mean I don’t have hope, Pa. There has to be somewhere in this world where I can go, someplace where I’m not sick or wrong… Maybe the world is waiting for me to find it.” He has quite a lot of time for such a task, and he has been set to doing it for a long time now. And it is easier, Kurt knows, to travel. It’s one thing for his father and Carole to live in these woods, but he and Finn get restless. They need the world, need to stretch their legs and open their eyes and see. If Kurt keeps walking and keeps seeing, maybe he’ll finally find what he’s been looking for.
“I have the highest hope that you will, Son.”
Burt claps him on the shoulder and the familiar act makes Kurt feel much younger. Because even if he hasn’t been there in a decade, the tiny, rotting cabin is still home.
“And, you know, you’re always safe here.” Burt shrugs awkwardly and Kurt smiles softly at him. Hummel men are never good at expressing themselves, at least not in any way that leaves them truly vulnerable.
“I know, Pa, I know.”
Home is safe. His father, Carole, and Finn… They all love him, they all make him feel safe. They will always be his family and be there for him. It is a comfort not many can depend on, but Kurt knows he’ll always have it.
Something nags at the back of his mind, ruining the sentimental moment with his father, and he wastes a moment biting his tongue. But it is important-a danger.
“Someone’s been following us.”
This time Burt turns to face him completely, eyebrows drawn deep over his eyes. Kurt fidgets a bit under his gaze. As many times as he’s spent on the end of his father’s looks, they still make him feel like a little a small child.
“This man. We… We saw him a few times. More than can be swept aside as coincidence. Finn and I, we’re always careful. Never stay too long in one area, never use our real names, but… We lost him several times. But he keeps coming back.” He swallows, staring straight into his father’s eyes. “I think he knows something.”
Finn and Carole clamber over at that moment, red-faced and breathless from laughing, but the look on Burt’s face quickly sobers his wife.
“We’re being followed,” Kurt blurts out without thinking, and he grimaces at the look of shock and worry that settles on Carole’s face. Finn just looks confused, and he shakes his head.
“No, Kurt… We lost him, remember? I don’t think he even saw us get on the ship, there’s no way-”
“We can’t be sure, Finn. He found us. Every single time, he was always the reason we had to up and leave. Somehow, he always found us, he-” Kurt doesn’t even notice the way his voice starts to waver until Carole has wrapped an arm around his shoulders.
“It was only a matter of time before someone found us,” Burt comments quietly, settling down in a nearby chair. They all look to him, and he rubs the back of his neck, eyes flicking around the circle and meeting with each of theirs for a few moments.
“No going into town.” His tone is final, and Kurt’s mouth falls slightly.
“But Pa-”
“It’s too dangerous right now. If that man is following you, it won’t be long ‘til he shows up here in Lima.” He runs the same hand over his face and, even though he‘s no longer aging, his years are obvious in the depths of his eyes. “Even if he ain’t, I saw tire tracks on the shore of the lake the other day… There’s hardly any forest left, and one day it will be gone.”
The finality of it strikes all of them, and Carole takes both of their hands and squeezes. It’s as comforting as it can be at the time, but none of them are happy to hear that their home, that their secret, is in danger.
“Until then. No one is going to town. We have everything we need here-always have. And if you run into strangers in the woods, if you find someone getting too close…” He pauses, looking at each of them sternly. “You know what to do. No exceptions.”
There have never been any exceptions and they all know that. Luck will hopefully still be on their side; it has been a long while and no one has ever bothered them. Soon, once he gets his fill of his dad, Carole, and home, he will set off again. It will be easier to get away, to go and search and not think about the changing times and the dwindling of the lifestyle he lives and loves so dearly.
Burt sighs heavily, going to stand and letting his true age weigh down his shoulders.
“Time here is almost up.” Finn looks lost, Carole looks sadly resigned, and Kurt doesn’t know how to look or feel at this point. As Burt turns away, he pauses at the door frame, knuckles white as he grips it.
“I can feel it.”
i. ii.