Work Text:
It is approximately two years and ten months later when a letter appears in the Anderson mailbox, addressed to Blaine but lacking any indication of where or who it has come from. Blaine finds it sitting on his writing desk after tea, and can only assume that him and Tabitha (the maid) are the only ones who even know the letter exists. The envelope is smooth to the touch, warm from the hot Ohio summer, and the writing on the front pricks at Blaine’s memory in an uncomfortable way.
Blaine shifts the lock on his door, holding the letter close as he settles into his favorite chair by the window. It’s unlikely that he’ll be disturbed; this is always the time of day when he reads, and his mother is quite aware of the fact. Things have changed quite drastically in Blaine Anderson’s life since he emerged from the woods nearly three years ago—some things have gotten easier, more bearable, while others still weigh around his neck like shackles.
He thinks briefly of the conversation his mother keeps trying to hedge—engagements, weddings, grandchildren—and pushes the uneasy mass off his shoulders. It does no good for him to fret over it.
He slides his finger under the lip of the envelope, feeling his nerves bundle together in anticipation as the paper parts and he can slide the soft paper of the letter out and into his hands.
The smell hits him immediately, and his fingers tense on the paper.
The fogginess in his memory clears, and he blinks at the blank side of the folded letter as if he can’t quite believe it exists. Because Blaine would know this smell anywhere, even after three years, and of course the writing had looked familiar to him.
He reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out a small square of cloth, folded neatly so that the floral embroidery peeks out prettily. Blaine opens it with shaking hands until a folded piece of paper slips out—it’s worn, having been unfolded and refolded too many times to have an exact count, and the paper is weak from being handled so many times. Blaine tries not to open it too much anymore, afraid that it will rip clear in half and he will lose one of the only things he has left that ties him to his heart.
Blaine sets the note against the writing on the envelope, and sucks in a breath.
The ‘l’ in love matches the one in his name.
He should put his note back, secure it over his heart, the same place it’s sat as a reminder of what he had—what he still has, if this letter brings him anything good.
Blaine feels his eyes swell with tears before he can even make out the first words.
My dearest Blaine,
If this letter is lucky enough to reach you, know that it is not the first I have tried to send, nor will it be the last. Post is difficult when you move as often as I do, and as much as I long for a letter in return, there is no promise I will be in the same place I’ve sent this from by the time you write back. I will imagine your response, instead, and hopefully my mind can do at least a little justice to whatever words you have for me. Hopefully the you I still carry around with me is at least a glimmer of who you are or what you have become.
There are so many things I could write in this letter, and so many things I have written and thrown away in my attempts to write you. There are so many letters lost out in the world that were meant for your eyes and have never been seen by them, all of my sentiments gone as if they had never existed in the first place. A part of me feels I should apologize, and yet I know I could write you a novel of apologies and that it will never be enough. I can say I’m sorry, my love, but I would so much rather show you just how sorry I am.
I miss you. Every single day, I miss you. I think about you, and about the time we spent together, and I imagine the days we will hopefully spend together again soon. I say soon, and I hope that it is soon, but there is no way of knowing when I can come back and see you. I have stopped myself more times than I dare tell you, and Pa has stopped me even more. But my resolve is growing thin, I think.
Europe is torn apart with war. Finn is fighting in it, and I have been left to travel on my own. I long for the day I can return to Paris, but I know that I cannot go back without you. There’s the Eiffel Tower, of course, but there is so much that I cannot wait to show you, Blaine. The world is so big, and I have spent so long traveling it alone; what will it look like through your eyes? I think it will be like seeing everything for the first time.
It’s hard for me to go anywhere now, as well as dangerous. I spend too much time flitting around America, skirting you and Ohio, and knowing it’s the only place I truly long to be. I tell myself that it will only be a little longer, that I just need to see your face and touch your cheek and I can last another hundred years. It is so strange to me, having time drag this way. Time has come to mean so very little to me, has come to be so insignificant, that I feel almost ridiculous complaining about three years. What is three years when you have forever?
It is still too long without you.
When this war is over, I don’t think I will have reason enough to stay away any longer. Even if you do not wish to see me, a glimpse of you would be enough, but I hope that is not the case. I want you to be happy, Blaine, and if that happiness does not include me, I will respect your wishes. So many nights I stay up and wonder what your life is like, whether or not you’ve changed, and I think too often about whether or not you have been to the spring and what you have done there. It should be no secret what I dream of, and yet I could never ask something like that of you.
Please know that whatever decision you make, it does not change things between us. I love you, seventeen or seventy three, so remember that.
I hope that you are happy. I hope that your life is good, and that your parents have been kind. I hope that there are more laugh lines around your smile and eyes, and I hope you walk around in our forest and think of me.
I hold your pocket watch to my heart every night and think of you.
I am counting down the days, Blaine Anderson.
I love you.
K
Blaine’s cheeks are wet with tears, and he reads the last two lines again and again until his eyes become blurred. He wipes at them, blinking away his sadness, and then presses his fingers into the paper.
I am counting down the days .
Blaine has been counting since the moment Kurt disappeared into the darkness.
When this war is over .
When will that be? Blaine’s father reads the paper every morning, grumbles about the war while Blaine stares at his breakfast and feels shame in the pit of his stomach for not going to fight. His parents don’t hold it against him, he knows, but the guilt sits inside him nonetheless.
But now, when his father discusses the grim subject, it will spark hope in Blaine’s heart. The end of the war now means more than, well, the end of a war. Now it means Kurt, close enough to touch, to hold, to kiss, and the thought makes Blaine hardly able to breathe.
Counting down the days.
How many days does he have?
Because, with tears still wet, Blaine realizes that the time to make his decision draws near.