A/N: I promise I'm still plugging away at the new chapter of Roses in December. This plot just kept chewing on my brain until I wrote it.

Warning: discussion of past character deaths.

Many thanks to guiltyphandiot for the last-minute beta!

When I was little, I always figured I was named after Kurt von Trapp.

After all, my mom and I used to watch The Sound of Music every Saturday morning. We'd eat egg whites and toast for breakfast, then pop in the DVD and wrap ourselves up in a blanket, huddled together like two peas in a pod. Mom would sing "I Have Confidence," and I'd sing "Climb Ev'ry Mountain."

"I hope your voice never changes," she said to me once, when I hit the high note and made the chandelier tinkle.

I got my love of singing from my mom. We were always putting on little shows for Dad. He'd come home from the tire and lube shop, exhausted and smelling like gas and grease, and we'd perform scenes from The Pirates of Penzance, or The Wizard of Oz, or Annie. Mom never made me play just the boy characters, either. Sometimes she was Peter Pan and I was Wendy. Dad always sat and watched, looking pleased and kind of smitten.

Mom was my first real friend. For a long time, she was my only friend. We had tea parties and baked cookies. She taught me how to dance, and sometimes we'd waltz the afternoon away.

Even when she got sick, she always had a warm voice, just for me. "Come on, Kurt," she'd say, too weak to lift her head from her pillow. "Give me a smile so bright they can see it from the cheap seats."

Everything changed, after Mom died.

Dad didn't laugh anymore. He started drinking beer after work, which I'd never seen him do. All evening, he'd sit in front of the TV, watching basketball or football or golf or tennis—

"Want to hear me sing?" I asked him one night.

"It's the playoffs, Kurt," he said, and reached for another beer.

I started having to make my own school lunches, because Dad would forget. Sometimes there was no food in the house, and I'd write out grocery lists and remind him to go buy the food. I would have gone myself, if eight-year-olds had been allowed to drive.

I had to tell Dad when I needed new clothes, or a haircut. He worked late at the garage most nights, getting home after I'd already gone to bed. Luckily I was a responsible kid, and I knew when to tuck myself in.

When's your bedtime, Kurt?

Nine o'clock, Mom.

That's my good boy.

The funeral was packed with people. A lot of them I knew, but a lot more were strangers. It was weird to see people I'd never met crying over my mom's casket. I remember some details of that day so clearly. I hadn't wanted to focus on the casket (Mom's in there, Mom's in there, somebody wake her up like the Prince woke up Snow White) so I looked around instead. I noticed a man wearing really fancy shoes. An old lady who kept smacking her dentures in and out of place on her gums. A woman who was so pregnant I wondered if her baby would pop out during the service.

There were some speeches, and then they were shoveling dirt into the hole, so I thought about the baby instead, and wondered if Mom would be reincarnated as that baby. I wondered if she would come and find me one day, all grown up.

"Hey, buddy, don't you cry," Dad murmured. "It's just me and you now." He held my hand tight as we left the cemetery, and I wished he could always be this strong for me.

Things settled down after a few years. Dad cut back to a beer or two per day, and he started coming home at a reasonable hour again. I didn't sing for him anymore, but my shower stall had great acoustics, so I made do.

It was the just the two of us. If our life had been a movie, Mom's spirit would have stayed with us, looking over us and swooshing through the house, leaving the echoes of "I Have Confidence" behind her.

Our life wasn't a movie, though.

I was about seven when I realized I wasn't like the other boys at school. I didn't want to play sports, or chase after the girls. I was content to sit under a tree with a fashion magazine and loftily ignore the taunts directed my way.

"Whatcha reading, Kurtina?" Bobby Wilson asked snidely, trying to rip my copy of Vogue out of my hands.

"At least I can read."

I tried not to cry when he flushed the magazine down a toilet in the boys' bathroom.

By my twelfth birthday, I'd had two different crushes on boys at my school. One was a tall sixth grader with wide shoulders and a kind face. The other was a little fifth grader who always smiled and said hello to me in the hallways. Even still, I had trouble coming to terms with that label; that dreaded, awful label that the other kids would slap on anyone who was different.

Gay. Queer. Homo.

Dad signed me up for soccer and basketball intramurals. He brought me to the shop on weekends and taught me how to service a car. Every Saturday, I'd come to work with him and do all the oil changes, humming "Climb Ev'ry Mountain" under my breath.

I tried to be a guy's guy for him. I really did. He'd been through enough in his life already. His parents were dead, his wife was dead... I was all he had left. Could I really disappoint him like that?

In the end, I told him the truth. I came out to him, and he hugged me and said he'd known already. That night, I cried myself to sleep with relief, and with guilt. Because I'd never told my mom my secret.

And we'd told each other everything.

I was sixteen when Dad had a heart attack. I can remember sitting at the side of his bed, willing him to wake up. Begging him, pleading with him not to leave me all alone.

If he died, what would I do? Where would I go?

It's just me and you now.

Dad had been unconscious for two days when a nurse came into his room to see me. "Your uncle is here," she said.

"I don't have an uncle," I told her.

She squeezed my hand gently. "He said you wouldn't know him. He's your dad's brother. He said they haven't spoken in years. Do you want to see him?"

"I dunno."

"It's okay. You don't have to. He said he'll be in the waiting room if you want to talk to him. Okay?"

I nodded, and she left. I sat there all evening, staring pensively at my dad's motionless form. Why wouldn't he have told me he had a brother? Why wouldn't my mom have mentioned it?

I think that was the most unsettling idea of all: that maybe my mom had kept secrets from me, too.

Later that night, I left Dad's room to venture down to the cafeteria for a late dinner. On my way, I passed the waiting room, and glanced inside.

And then I stopped short.

A man was sitting in one of the plastic chairs, wearing a gorgeous vintage jacket and thick-heeled leather boots that I'd been salivating over for the past month. His excellent sense of fashion wasn't what had stopped me, though.

He was the man from my mom's funeral. He was the man in the fancy shoes.

When he caught sight of me staring at him, he looked at me curiously. "Are you... Kurt?" he asked.

Not trusting my voice, I nodded.

"You look like your mom," he said. The rims of his eyelids were red, like he'd been crying.

"You knew my mom?"

Fancy Shoes smiled, then bit his lower lip. "I knew her well, yes."

That was what pushed me into the room, finally. Dad rarely talked about Mom anymore, and maybe Fancy Shoes would have some stories I'd never heard before. "You're my uncle?"

"Yup."

"Why haven't I ever met you?"

"It's... complicated."

"Humor me," I said flatly.

He sighed. "A long time ago, your dad did something that I considered unforgivable. It was right before you were born. I haven't spoken to him since."

I waited, but he didn't elaborate. "And now you're here. Does that mean you've forgiven him?"

"I don't know," he told me. He looked about as broken as I felt that night, so I brought him with me, down to the cafeteria. We drank a couple of mochas and shared a fruit platter.

"What's your name, anyway?" I asked him.

"Kurt."

I blinked. "Seriously?"

"Yeah, your mom named you after me. You didn't know that?"

"No, I always figured it was after The Sound of Music."

"One of her favorite musicals," he nodded. "But no, you're my namesake."

I sipped my mocha slowly, thinking. "So... Dad did something you thought was unforgivable, shortly before I was born. And then Mom went and named me after you? Why would she do that?"

He smiled sadly. "Your mom was never subtle, Kurt."

Uncle Kurt came home with me that night. In retrospect, I should have been more suspicious. A relative stranger, claiming to be an estranged relative. Why did I believe him so readily?

He slept on the couch. When I woke up early the next morning, the smell of egg whites and toast was wafting up the stairs.

Uncle Kurt worked in fashion, out in New York City. He showed me sketches of his latest designs, and I shyly brought out some of my own. His eyes lit up. "Oh, Kurt, this is a great start. What textiles did you have in mind for this one? Something with a nice weight to it, I hope. You know, if you hem the pants down here instead, you elongate the line of the leg—"

We didn't leave the house that day. Uncle Kurt cooked us a fabulous dinner, and we stayed up late watching a marathon of old Friends episodes.

"Which character do you identify with?" I asked him.

"Oh god. Rachel. No question."

I laughed. For the first time since my dad went into the hospital, I laughed out loud. Then I felt horribly, horribly guilty.

That night, I waited until I was sure Uncle Kurt was asleep. Then I crept out of the house, opening my car door manually so he wouldn't hear the beeping. The drive to the hospital took just under half an hour, and the whole way there, I wondered if Dad had died that day. If he'd died while I'd eaten lobster-asparagus risotto and learned fashion design tips and laughed with some guy who, until a day earlier, hadn't cared to ever meet me.

Dad's heart monitor was beeping steadily when I arrived. I let out a loud sigh of relief and sank into the chair by his bed. The rhythmic beeping lulled me to sleep and played metronome for the songs Mom sang in my dreams.

"Here you are!" I awoke to see Uncle Kurt striding into the room. His hair was utter bedhead (and not the stylishly tousled kind) and one of his shoes was untied. "God, Kurt, I woke up and I didn't know where you were."

"I was here," I said. "With my dad."

"You should have told me you were leaving," he said, fisting one hand in his hair and messing it up further. "I was so worried."

I didn't apologize, because hell, I'd known him for a day. Even if something had happened to me, how much would it have really affected him? In the end I shrugged, and he wiped his nose with the back of his hand. He looked down at my dad, at all of the monitors and wires, and burst into tears.

"I'm sorry," I said finally. He reached out and squeezed my dad's hand.

On Dad's fourth day in the hospital, Uncle Kurt and I were sitting on either side of his hospital bed, watching TV, when we heard the sound of someone sprinting down the hallway. In a matter of seconds, a man appeared in the doorway, gasping for breath. Uncle Kurt launched himself out of his seat and into the man's arms. They stood there for a long time, clutching each other.

"I'm so sorry I wasn't here," the man said. "I caught the first flight I could—"

"You were in China," Uncle Kurt replied. "I understood. I'm so glad you came."

Eventually they pulled apart, and Uncle Kurt leaned in to kiss the man. I could feel myself blushing. It's not like I hadn't ever suspected, but still. Two men kissing. I'd never seen anything like that before. Not in Lima.

"You must be Kurt," the man said, and I stood up awkwardly.

"Kurt, this is my husband," Uncle Kurt told me. "His name is Blaine."

"Oh, wow. He looks so much like Rachel," Blaine breathed out, and Uncle Kurt nodded.

"It really is uncanny."

"Except for the nose."

"Well thank god for that."

On the sixth day, Blaine showed me videos of my mom singing with her high school show choir. Two tenors stepped forward to harmonize with her, and I blinked in surprise. "Is... is that you? And Uncle Kurt?"

"Yup. And wait till you see who sings the next part with her."

I waited and watched as a tall boy danced awkwardly over to my mom, throwing his head back and singing for all he was worth. He smiled and twirled her around, looking pleased and kind of smitten.

Blaine put the video away once I started to cry.

Uncle Kurt handled all of the discussions with Dad's doctors. He said he had some experience in that area, and that it wasn't something that a teenager should ever have to deal with. One day, when he disappeared down the hall to talk with a doctor, I turned to Blaine resolutely.

"Okay, tell me why I haven't ever met you or Kurt before now."

He looked uncomfortable. "It's complicated."

"I'm not a child. Explain it to me."

"Kurt—"

"Please. I know my dad isn't perfect; you're not going to knock him off a pedestal if you tell me something bad about him. He's my father and I'll always love him. Please, just tell me."

Blaine hesitated. "He... had a car accident years ago. A bad one."

"Okay..."

"Your grandparents didn't survive the crash. And Kurt never forgave him for it." He didn't elaborate. He didn't have to.

"He'd been drinking?"

"He wasn't legally drunk."

"But he'd been drinking."

Blaine didn't disagree.

Uncle Kurt reported that Dad's vitals were good. His heart was doing well. But he wasn't waking up.

Blaine showed me how to stretch and bend Dad's legs, so he wouldn't be at risk for a blood clot in his legs. Kurt used no-rinse shampoo to freshen up Dad's hair. The three of us sang songs from Wicked, and Rent, and A Chorus Line.

"Do you think Mom knew I was gay?" I asked Uncle Kurt one day, as we drank mochas in the cafeteria.

He hummed a little. "You're gay?"

"Oh, like you didn't know."

He smiled, and lifted one shoulder. "I'm sure she suspected. I was her best friend, after all, and she was raised by two gay fathers. She'd certainly know what to look for."

I stared at him, dumbfounded. "Two gay fathers?"

"Hiram and LeRoy Berry. Great men."

"She never..." I shook my head. "Why wouldn't she have told me about them? Why wouldn't I have met—"

"They died," he said shortly. "Right after your mom graduated from high school. It's not a nice story, Kurt. Be glad you don't know the details."

"I want to be a performer," I told them on the twelfth day. "I want to sing and act and dance. I want to take Broadway by storm and win a Tony by the time I'm twenty-five."

I waited for them to tell me that my goals were too lofty, that I should aim for something more realistic.

"Well of course you do," Uncle Kurt said. "You're Rachel Berry's son."

"We should find you an agent," Blaine said. "You can come and stay with us over the summer. There are plenty of acting workshops in the city. You can get your feet wet, get something on your resume."

They started planning my future excitedly. They talked so loudly, I almost couldn't hear the soft shush of Dad's respirator.

The doctors were starting to get concerned. It had been two full weeks since Dad's heart attack, and he was still unconscious.

"Did your dad ever say anything to you about his... wishes?" Uncle Kurt asked tentatively one day. "About whether he would want to be kept alive on machines, or—"

I ran out of the room. Down the hallway, down three flights of stairs, across the lobby, out, out, out of the hospital. I was nearly to the parking lot by the time Blaine caught up with me.

"Kurt, wait—"

"I don't want to live with you and Uncle Kurt in New York," I gasped, as hot tears spilled down my cheeks. "I don't want to be a star, I want my dad back. I want to change the oil in his shop every Saturday—"

Blaine grabbed me and pulled me into a tight hug. "It's okay," he said. "It'll be okay, I promise."

It was absurd, to promise such a thing.

It was even more absurd that his promise made me feel better.

Uncle Kurt and I went to the cemetery on the sixteenth day. He took a little stone out of his pocket and set it on my mom's headstone.

"Was she a good mother?" he asked.

"She was the best mother."

He nodded, unsurprised. "She was the best at most things."

We sat with our backs against her headstone, trading stories about Mom. He told me about how she'd fallen apart after her fathers died, and abandoned her dreams of stardom. Instead, she'd married my dad and settled down in Lima, content to start a family.

"Why do you think she named me Kurt?" I asked. "Why not name me after Dad's father?"

"Well, your dad's father actually died when he was a baby," he hedged.

"How?"

"He... had trouble with addictions."

"Like my dad?"

"A lot worse than your dad."

I thought about that for a while. "But still, why not name me after your dad, then? The one who died in the car accident?" The moment I said it, I winced, knowing Uncle Kurt would be upset that Blaine had told me. But he just sighed as though he'd known all along.

"Your mom always hoped we'd be able to make amends one day. I think she named you Kurt to remind Finn to reach out to me."

"Did he?"

"A few times, yes."

"Why didn't you ever forgive him?"

He leaned his head back against the smooth headstone and shook his head. I shook my head, too.

Blaine started helping me with my homework in the waiting room.

"This is stupid," I told him. "Why should I memorize the Pythagorean Theorem? How will that ever help me in my adult life?"

"Kurt uses it, when he's making patterns for his designs," Blaine countered.

"Okay, then, when is it ever useful to know what caused the War of 1812?"

He opened his mouth, then closed it and chuckled. "You've got me there. That will never be useful to you."

"I wish McKinley had classes that taught us actual skills. Like how to balance a checkbook, or apply for student loans, or—"

The sound of pounding footsteps raced toward us, and we both looked up as Uncle Kurt ran up to our table.

He was crying.

He'd come from Dad's room, and he was crying, and the world was shifting underneath my feet as I stood up shakily and ran, ran, ran down the hall, my legs wobbling and my heart squeezing itself into a tight fist as I turned the corner into his room and saw the nurse removing Dad's ventilator.

And then I was crying, too.

"Hey, buddy," he whispered raspily. "Don't you cry."

Dad came home from the hospital, and I appointed myself his caregiver after Uncle Kurt and Blaine flew back to New York. I threw out two cases of his beer and armfuls of junk food, then made him low-sodium soups with plenty of fresh vegetables.

"You need to go back to school," he told me, sipping his soup and grimacing. "How are you supposed to get out of this town if you don't graduate from high school? You don't want to be stuck in Lima for the rest of your life."

I used a napkin to blot at his chin, where a bit of soup had dripped. "There are worse things than being stuck in Lima, Dad."

Uncle Kurt called me every day, to ask how Dad was doing.

"You can ask him yourself," I said. "Want me to put him on the phone?"

"No," he said every time. "No, I'm not ready. Maybe tomorrow."

One chilly afternoon, about a week after he'd come home, I asked Dad why he'd never told me that he used to sing. He smiled, surprised. "Come on," he said. He led me out to the garage, where we dug through dusty cardboard boxes until we'd amassed a stack of videos of that same show choir Blaine had shown me. Dad and I sat together on the couch, a blanket wrapped around us for warmth, and watched song after song. Mom's beautiful voice filled our house again, making the chandelier tinkle.

"She was an amazing singer," I said, awed.

"She really was," he agreed.

"It's like every song is better than the last." I tightened the blanket around me. "I think she was best on 'Don't Rain on My Parade.' Or maybe 'Firework.' Or 'Without You.' I can't decide. What do you think?"

"Hmm?" he asked, still staring distractedly at the screen.

"I asked what you thought she was best at."

He looked down at me. "She was best at being your mom."

All afternoon we huddled under a blanket together, like two peas in a pod. Dad ate all of his soup and didn't complain, and I gave him a smile so bright, you could see it from the cheap seats.