#not sure if i'm frontloading Blaine's backstory too much in here

[wowbright]

Fic: Best Birthday Ever

Tan Hands and Tan Lines Sophisticated Word Challenge 2021: yodel

Words: ~5300 words

Rating: Teen and up

Summary: Elder Hummel makes Blaine’s birthday a day worth celebrating.

I’m belatedly going through the prompts for The Tan Hands and Tan Lines Summer Event 2021 to flesh out my Mormon!Klaine universe. This one takes place after Sneaky, which i posted yesterday.

My Mormon!Klaine Masterpost

Notes: (1) Do consecrated oil vials in the shape of bullets actually exist? Why yes, they do. (2) If you're familiar with the date of every general conference for the past ten years, then you might figure out that I fudged with the dates here—because this is fiction, and I can do that! (3) So … I don’t actually get through the whole birthday here. Does that count as leaving it on a cliffhanger? Again? Sorry. It just felt like I done everything I could do with “yodel.” I *am* planning to continue it. (4) If you have any questions or typo corrections, feel free to use my ask box!

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Blaine blinked slowly awake as the alarm blared somewhere on the edge of his consciousness. Above him, he could see a distant light blinking as it traveled across the inky morning sky.

A satellite. In outer space. But he wasn't in outer space. He was in a bed in Ingolstadt. In the apartment he shared with his new companion. Elder Hummel. Whose real name was Kurt. And who was somehow more amazing and fascinating than any of Blaine’s previous amazing and fascinating companions.

Blaine turned over to see if Kurt—Elder Hummel—was awake. He must be. How could he sleep through this obnoxious screeching alarm?

Elder Hummel’s bed was empty, and Blaine felt the sink of disappointment in his chest. It was kind of fun to watch Elder Hummel fuss and grumble at the morning alarm. Not in a Schadenfreude kind of way, but because he was a cute grumbler. During the day, Elder Hummel kept himself encased in a wall of propriety. He was considered and deliberate in his actions. But first thing in the morning, he was a more primal version of himself. He let his id surface—complaining about the noise, insisting that alarm clocks were a crime against humanity, whining that he should be able to sleep in for just five more minutes, muttering “Das ist sinloss, das ist blöd” over and over—until he was awake enough to suppress it.

Blaine could hear his companion moving around in the kitchen and got a faint whiff of cinnamon. Blaine vaguely remembered Elder Hummel getting up out of bed last night—something about warm milk?—and later returning. Blaine should have gotten up to make sure Elder Hummel was okay, but he'd been so tired. Moving to a new district was always exhausting.

Well, he could check now.

Blaine sprung out of bed, took a pitstop to relieve his bladder, and entered the living room to find Elder Hummel sitting on the loveseat in a long-sleeved t-shirt and running tights, his Scriptures open in his lap.

“Good morning,” Elder Hummel said, looking up. He crooked an eyebrow. “Or should I say ‘happy birthday’?”

Oh. Oh. That was right. Today was Blaine’s birthday. He wasn't just an adult now. He was an adult, plus one year. Which made him a real adult. But— “How did you know?”

“I have my ways.” Elder Hummel set his book on the end table and leaned inquisitively toward Blaine.  “Is there a particular reason you didn't tell me? Do you hate birthdays? Are you secretly a Jehovah's Witness?”

Blaine squirmed under Elder Hummel's gaze. Not on the outside, but on the inside, just behind his belly button. It felt pleasant. “No. I just … didn't want to make a deal out of it, since I just transferred and all. I didn't want you to feel compelled to, I don't know … go out of your way to do something. I don't want to be any trouble.”

Elder Hummel rolled his eyes and stood up. “Birthdays are not trouble. So—” He clapped his hands. “Do you want to go for a run like we were scheduled to do, or would you like your first present?”

Wait. What? Blaine felt his face heating up. He wasn't sure if it was embarrassment or pleasure. “You didn’t have to—”

“No. But I wanted to.”

Blaine’s ears went hot. Was there smoke coming out of them? “That's sweet of you.”

“You don't know that. You haven't seen it yet,” Elder Hummel said, completely stone-faced.

Blaine let out a huff of laughter. Elder Hummel was so delightfully frustrating. When he looked at Blaine with those piercing blue eyes and that expression of absolute resolve, he made Blaine feel like he was going to crumble into a pile of diamond dust, or something equally and wonderfully improbable.

Blaine looked away. “Run first. Then I can build up the anticipation.”

“I don't want you to build it up so much that you're disappointed.”

“I won't be,” Blaine parried back. “Everything you come up with is amazing.”

“Now I'm really worried.”

Blaine rolled his eyes back at Elder Hummel. It wasn’t an expression he used often, but it felt like the appropriate one in the moment. But just in case it wasn’t, he spun on his socked feet and headed back to the bedroom to change into his running clothes before his senior companion could call him out on it—silently giggling to himself all the while.

*

The air was fresh, and Blaine felt so alive. He was reminded of a line from one of Elder Nelson’s conference talks a few years before: “Anyone who studies the workings of the human body has surely ‘seen God moving in his majesty and power.’” Blaine was a marvelous work of God’s, and so was Elder Hummel running along beside him, his legs long and strong and his skin glowing with the warm colors of sunrise.

“I have to warn you,” Elder Hummel said with an easy, relaxed cadence, as if they were on a leisurely Sunday stroll and not pressing their way up an incline. “Your present isn't really a present so much as an experience.”

Oh! Blaine loved experiences. He’d always wished his dad would give him experiences for his birthday, like cooking together or singing karaoke or going out to the theater, instead of computers and cars and other things he didn’t need. Already, the simple fact that Elder Hummel was thinking about Blaine’s happiness felt more meaningful than most of the gifts he’d gotten in previous years.

All around them, the town was like a birthday cake, the way it was bathed in orange-yellow light. Tiny birds whose names Blaine didn't know were singing in the trees, as if to celebrate this day with him.

“This is the experience, isn't it?” Blaine said excitedly. “Going for a run with you.” It was a fabulous present. Ingenious, really.

“No. This isn’t it.” Elder Hummel smiled slightly, and that was a birthday present too. “What do you usually do for your birthday, anyway? Any interesting Anderson traditions I should know about?”

Blaine thought about this. It had been a few years since his birthday hadn't been overshadowed by general conference, but even then, he didn't think there was anything particularly unique about the way his family did things: presents, a birthday cake, and a blessing from his dad for the next year. Often the blessing didn't come on Blaine’s birthday—on his thirteenth and fourteenth and sixteenth, his dad had been on business trips or conducting business in another stake, so he’d blessed Blaine on his return.

Honestly, by the time Blaine’s sixteenth rolled around, he had come to terms his father’s absence and almost relished in it. It meant he could create the birthday he wanted for himself. He invited Tina and the other kids from the Asian students club over for dinner, and his mom taught them all how to make sinigang “the right way.” Tina and a couple of the other girls treated everyone to their attempt at a cassava cake, and Mom withheld her criticism for the evening even though it really was quite terrible. Desert wasn’t a total wash, though. Thanks to Cooper, there was plenty of ube ice cream.

It was a lovely birthday memory, tainted only by the next day, when Blaine’s dad drove up in a new Audi and proclaimed that it was his birthday present. “Gosh. Thanks, Dad,” Blaine said, not quite understanding why the main emotion he felt when seeing the gift was resentment. He was sixteen. He was going for his driver’s license in a week. Most kids would have been thrilled to be in his position. “But you didn’t have to. We already have three cars.”

“Sure, I did,” his dad answered. “I’ve got to make up somehow for not being here on the actual day.”

Blaine wondered if this was his dad’s way of telling him that, in his heart, he’d wanted to be there. That he would have preferred to be there every day, as much as Blaine’s mother was. But he couldn't, regardless of what he wanted. Because that was not the role God had carved out for fathers.

Somehow, that made it even worse.

“No traditions that I can think of,” Blaine said. “Other than the usual cake and stuff. What about your family?”

“Carvel.”

“What’s Carvel?”

“You don’t have Carvel in Arizona? It's this ice cream chain that makes stupid cartoon character desserts out of mediocre soft ice cream. We started getting them on my first birthday after my mom died. My dad tried to bake a cake and almost burned the house down. My aunt came to the rescue with a Carvel ice cream cake, and I was so excited about it because I’d been whining for my parents to get me one for years. But alas, that was the day of my innocence was shattered and I learned that just because the local TV station plays ads for something every fifteen minutes does not mean that it is a gourmet delight.” Elder Hummel shrugged—because apparently he could run and shrug at the same time. “But it’s a good memory, anyway. I mean, yes, I missed my mom and everyone including me was trying too hard to act like things were normal, but then … we started to enjoy ourselves. My aunt—she should have been a stand-up comedian specializing in grief. She made the whole thing hilarious. And she’s brought me a Carvel ice cream treat every year since.”

“Wait. So she thinks you like them?”

“Oh, not exactly. I made my disappointment pretty obvious on my birthday. But … I guess my aunt and I have a weird sense of shared humor? Because that birthday was sort of awful, and the cake was disappointing, but … I don’t know. Those Carvel characters are so ridiculous and tacky that it’s hard not to love them. And clearly my initial disappointment in Fudgie the Whale had more to do with my mom not being there than with the actual cake. I mean, they're not gourmet, but I do love me some sugar.”

Blaine knew he shouldn’t compare his family to other families, but he felt jealous. Since his grandmother had died, he didn't have any local relatives who understood him enough to share inside jokes with. “That’s sweet that you have that with your aunt.”

“Did you mean to say ‘weird’?”

“No, I did not mean to say ‘weird’.”

Elder Hummel studied him momentarily before turning his face back toward the path in front of them. “Anyway, aren't we supposed to be talking about you and your birthday, birthday boy?”

“I like listening to your stories. They’re my birthday treat.”

Elder Hummel let out a huff of laughter. “You’re something else, you know that, Elder Anderson?”

Blaine felt warm inside, the way he sometimes did in sacrament meeting, when the music and prayers and sense of community all came together to form a perfect reminder of God’s love.

*

“Okay, so, your first present,” Elder Hummel said when they returned to the apartment, tying an apron on over his running clothes with an authoritative air. “You tell me what you want for breakfast and I make it while you do whatever you want, within reason. Omelette? Crepes? A savory souffle? I mean, I guess I could make oatmeal or cold cereal, if you'd rather have that.”

“You don’t have to—”

“We really need to delete that phrase from your vocabulary for the rest of the day. Now, what would you like?”

Okay. If Elder Hummel honestly wanted to do this, and it really wasn't a hassle, and he would enjoy making all of the things equally … “I've never had crepes. Are they good?”

“‘Are they good?’” Elder Hummel repeated back in a mock offended tone. “Well, I guess you're just going to have to find that out for yourself, aren't you?”

A few minutes later, Elder Hummel was at the stove, pouring a thin layer of batter into a skillet, and Blaine was watching intently from the kitchen table, his elbow on its surface and his chin resting comfortably on the fleshy part his palm.

“Don’t you have other things you'd rather be doing?” Elder Hummel asked. “Like taking a decadently long shower or taking a nap or … eh. I guess there really aren't that many ways for missionaries to indulge themselves on their birthdays.”

Blaine did need a shower. But not yet. Because, once he took his shower, he'd have to put his garments on, and he kind of liked not wearing them for a little bit. Plus— “I like watching you.”

Elder Hummel glanced at Blaine, frowning as if he were a particularly challenging crossword clue, then looked back at the pan. “I'm no Julia Child. I haven't even been narrating the process to you.”

“Well, you could,” Blaine said. Watching Elder Hummel at work was interesting enough, but learning from him would take it to a whole new level.

“Oh, fine. Since it's your birthday.”

At first, Elder Hummel’s narration of his process was simple and straightforward. But somewhere along the line, it turned into an actual Julia Child impression that was, frankly, terrible, and yet also spot-on and hilarious. Blaine laughed so hard he thought he might pee himself, and by the time the first savory crepe hit the table—filled with cheese and tomatoes and tiny slices of onion—Blaine was wiping tears from his eyes.

“Oh, gosh,” Blaine panted. “This is the best birthday ever.”

“I hope you're exaggerating,” said Elder Hummel, turning back to the stove. “It’s been pretty low-key so far.”

“Well, my last two birthdays fell on general conference weekend,” Blaine said. It was only after the words were out of his mouth that he heard how complaining and ungrateful they might sound to Elder Hummel, who was so upright and perfect in his faith and would probably thrill to have his birthday fall on conference weekend. “Don't get me wrong. General conference is edifying and—”

Elder Hummel lifted a hand in a “stop” gesture. “You don't have to explain to me. I know I’m a little hard-nosed, but it's not easy to sit all day listening to talks, no matter how inspired. Honestly? I like that we can't watch it all live here because of the time difference. I get more out of it when the talks are spread out.”

Another layer of the onion that was Elder Hummel had been pulled back.

Blaine sliced into the crepe and lifted the first bite to his mouth with his fork. He let it linger on his tongue. It was— “Oh my gosh, Elder Hummel! This is incredible. You could give Julia Child a run for her money.”

Elder Hummel turned and raised an eyebrow at Blaine. “Have you ever actually tasted anything cooked by Julia Child?”

“Have you?”

“Touché.”

Blaine ate his crepe slowly, closing his eyes as he chewed so that he could truly savor the flavors and textures.

Yes, his was so much better than sitting in front of the TV all day with extended family. General conference had gotten more and more uncomfortable every year. Some of his family members seemed to get the opposite message from the talks from what he got. If a talk emphasized loving people just as they were, by the time his family had dissected it, it had turned into “the way you love Muslims is by converting them” and “the way you love undocumented immigrants is by sending them home” and “the way you love gay people is by showing them that their way of living is an abomination and will lead them to misery.”

And then there was Blaine’s grandfather. The patriarch of the family. He had always been a difficult, unbending man, strict with his children and their offspring. But Blaine had noticed it getting even worse since his grandmother died, and in the past couple years, senility began encroaching into the mix.

“When are they gonna have you give a talk, John? You're a Seventy now,” Blaine’s grandad had asked his dad on his eighteenth birthday, opening a huge can of awkward that everyone in the family had to pretend hadn't been opened and hadn't been awkward.

“I'm an Area Seventy, Dad. I’m not a general authority.”

“Yeah, but soon, right? And you’ve had your calling and election made sure?”

There were no audible gasps in the room. To gasp would be to admit that the grand patriarch of them all had made a massive faux pas. Because it might be okay that his grandfather had dropped hints about his own second anointing with vague discussions of “an important meeting Jeannie and I had at the temple with Elder So-and-So” and “a spiritual experience to sacred to share,” but to actually talk about these things openly in front of the entire family? That wasn’t just gauche. It was forbidden. Nobody was supposed to know about the second annointing except for the members who got it—the only reason Blaine even knew what his grandfather was referencing was because Cooper had told him about it the Sunday their parents had mysteriously gone to the Mesa Temple—which was supposed to be closed on Sundays—and then Blaine confirmed it on the internet. The brethren said not to trust anything you read on the internet, and Blaine hadn't. He'd gone down a rabbit hole of checking and double-checking sources and citations, and at the end of it he learned that his grandfather and grandmother and apparently now his own parents had participated in a secret ordinance guaranteeing them a spot in the celestial kingdom.

It felt wrong to Blaine. Not that he didn't want his predecessors to go to heaven. But how could such a thing be guaranteed before a person even died? His dad had continued to commit plenty of sins after that weird weekend, as far as Blaine was concerned—because emotionally neglecting your own child and prioritizing an expensive house and cars over relationships were sins, weren’t they? Would he not even have to repent now? Could he just go on being a distant jerk to Blaine for the rest of his life and get rewarded for it, anyway?

And what was the point of an ordinance that parents had to hide from their own children, anyway? Did the church really need to put more obstacles in the way of having the kind of relationship with his parents where he could talk freely about them with anything? It would never happen now.

Cooper didn’t have satisfying answers for Blaine, and Blaine couldn't come up with any. So he'd shelved his questions, and when going through the temple for his endowment revived them, he'd shoved them back with the same explanation he'd gotten for everything else in the temple: It was confusing and strange on the surface, but with time and spiritual maturity, Blaine would gain insight according to his faith.

*

“And now a sweet one,” Elder Hummel said, setting down a beautiful crepe filled with whipped cream and strawberries. Powdered sugar was sprinkled over the top, along with tiny slivers of candied lemon peel.

“Where did these come from?” Blaine said, picking up a piece of lemon peel and dropping it on his tongue. It was heavenly, the perfect combination of sour and sweet.

“I have my sources,” Elder Hummel said coyly. He sat down with his own plate of crepes, which looked equally as delicious as Blaine’s but were a little more haphazard in their arrangement—the crepes were ragged on the edges, and the fillings oozed sloppily out of the seams.

And it dawned on Blaine: Elder Hummel hadn't made Blaine’s crepes stunning out of a compulsion to make everything stunning. Because Elder Hummel’s crepes weren’t picture perfect, and yet there he was, diving into them with glee.

No. Elder Hummel had made Blaine’s crepes stunning because they were for a special occasion. They were for Blaine’s birthday.

Elder Hummel had it done it for Blaine’s sake, and no other reason.

Blaine blinked back tears.

“Are you crying again?” Elder Hummel set down his fork, a concerned expression on his face.

“It’s fine. It’s, like … residual from your Julia Child impression, I think.”

Elder Hummel smirked. “Well, then. I better improve my Julia Child impression if it makes you that upset.”

Blaine had the sudden, overwhelming urge to pinch Elder Hummel. Not hard. Just a teasing one, to let him know that he got the joke and it was terrible.

Instead, he smiled and took another bite of perfect strawberry crepe, made just for him.

*

“Where are we going?” Blaine asked. They appeared to be in a semi-industrial area of Ingolstadt near the river. It had been a quick bike ride from their last morning appointment, but not exactly a good place to have lunch.

“If I told you that, it wouldn't be a surprise.”

They parked their bikes next to a metal-sided building that looked like a warehouse. Elder Hummel opened the door into a small, non-descript lobby, and then another door, and—

It took Blaine a few moments to comprehend what he was seeing. There was a wooden platform. On it were people in stretch pants straight out of a Lululemon ad, dancing some odd little jig that looked sort of German but also had footwork that reminded Blaine of Irish dance. In front of the stage, a tall blonde woman in a track suit was barking commands at the dancers through a bullhorn. Nearby, a gaggle of musicians played along with accordions, clarinets, multiple types of horns, a fiddle, and some skin drums.

Suddenly, the music quieted and the dancers parted like the Red Sea. Two singers emerged from their midst, a young man and a young woman, and they were … yodeling?

The large room filled with eery notes that vaulted from low to high and back to low again in a mesmerizing loop. On each turn of the musical wheel, notes were added and changed, scaling up up up and down down down in dizzying extremes.

“Oh my gosh!” whispered Blaine, holding the tips of his fingers up to his mouth to keep from squealing too loudly. “They’re yodeling!”

“They are indeed,” said Elder Hummel with a frown.

Blaine was pretty sure the frown was just for show. “I didn't know you could yodel in a duet.”

“The McCarthys can.”

“Wait. McCarthy. That's not a German name.”

“It’s not. Remember last week when we went around to check on inactive-but-friendly member families? They're one of the ones who weren't home. They’ve developed this weird hybrid German-Irish yodeling technique. Apparently they're very famous on the folk circuit and touring constantly. Hence the inactivity. Anyway, when I found out it was your birthday today, I got an idea. And they were open to it.”

“You're so awesome,” Blaine said, giving Elder Hummel’s forearm a squeeze before he could remember not to. Apparently it was OK, though, because Elder Hummel didn't flinch. “And they’re good.”

“I wouldn't know. I'm not a yodeler.”

“You don't have to be a yodeler to tell they sound awesome. Do you know how long I've been wanting to hear somebody yodel?”

Elder Hummel lifted an eyebrow. “Really? I don't think I've heard of that particular goal being on any other missionary’s bucket list before.”

“It’s been on my list ever since I saw Julie Andrews doing ‘The Lonely Goatherd’ in Sound of Music.”

“Well, then. I'm glad I accidentally read your mind.”

Elder Hummel led Blaine to some chairs closer to the stage, but still far away enough to stay out of bullhorn woman's way. He pulled out two sandwiches from his bag and handed once to Blaine, along with a small bottle of lemon cola. “Sorry, it's not cold,” said Elder Hummel.

“That doesn’t matter. It’s—" Blaine had too many feelings to put into words. Elder Hummel had really pulled out all the stops today. “It’s perfect.”

*

The McCarthys were not a young married couple, as had been Blaine’s first impression. They were twins, one very tall and one very short, with clear German accents that were only slightly Bavarian-tinged and not Irishy sounding at all.

“Elder Anderson, meet the McCarthy twins,” Elder Hummel said when the sister and brother team descended from the stage for a break.

Blaine eagerly shook hands with each of them. “You two have blown my mind. I didn't know yodeling could sound so modern and relevant, you know? Not that I know anything about yodeling, but—I mean, it just. Wow. And what's this about Ireland having a yodeling tradition?”

“Well,” said the sister, who was short and cute with her brown hair pulled back in a swinging ponytail, “not yodeling exactly. Ireland has an a cappella tradition called sean-nós that works really well with yodeling. Our dad was touring European folk festivals as a sean-nós singer when he met our mom, who was raised south of here and was touring as a yodeler, and the rest is history.”

“That's fascinating, Sister McCarthy.”

“Oh. Call me Madison. And my brother—” She gestured at the tall, handsome man beside her. “He’s Mason.”

Blaine shook their hands again as he repeated their names. It was a slightly awkward thing to do, but he'd learned it was a good way to set unfamiliar names into his memory. But— “Those don't sound German or Irish.”

“They're not,” Mason said, his thick curls swaying slightly as he shook his head. They were similar to Blaine’s, but not nearly as tamped down by gel. Blaine glanced over toward Elder Hummel to see what his companion thought of the curls, but it was hard to tell whether the interest written on Elder Hummel’s face had been inspired by Mason’s good looks or was instead born out of politeness. “Our mom lived in the United States for a few years growing up, and you know how Doctrine & Covenants says that the U.S. Constitution was established by God? Our parents decided to name all of us after delegates to the U.S. Constitutional Convention.”

“There’s more of you?”

“Well, not other twins, but—” Madison turned around toward the stage where the dancers were re-rehearsing the previous song with even fancier footwork, and began pointing to different ones. “Franklin, Morris, Ellsworth—everyone calls her Elli—” Her finger trailed down toward the band. “And Martin and Carroll!”

“They’re all your siblings?” Blaine asked stupidly. He'd known Mormon families that big in the U.S., but never in Germany.

“Yup!” Madison said cheerfully. “It was mom and dad’s dream to have a family that could be a self-sustaining entertainment troupe. Like The Osmonds!”

Okay. Was that a little … creepy? Or was it inspiring? Blaine wished he had a family that emphasized doing fun, artistic things together, and not just church stuff.

“Unless you meant to ask if we have any other siblings?” asked Mason. He continued without waiting for an answer. “We also have a brother, Randolph, and sister, Gerry, who never really got into music or dance, so he went into accounting and she’s a doctor. But the rest of us got the crazy artist gene.”

So the family allowed for different temperaments. That was good. That was— Blaine caught himself. He shouldn't be judging the dynamics of other people’s families and comparing them to his own. Blaine had chosen his family before he was born, when he’d been waiting for a body in the spirit world. He had chosen his mom and dad to raise him. He had chosen them knowing that he could very well spend most of his childhood on his own, with no other siblings in the house and a father busy with more important things.

On this side of the veil, Blaine could see why Blaine had chosen his mother, even if she could be difficult and strict sometimes. But his father? Blaine had considered this a lot, and finally came to the conclusion that he must have admired his dad's devotion to the church. He must have seen it as an iron rod that would guide him through life. Premortal Blaine knew how precarious things would be on the other side of the veil, how easy it would be to forget the truths he had learned before entering mortal life. So he chose someone who would enforce those truths on him. Who would keep him from straying.

And that must have been a good enough reason to accept the rest of his father's family, as well.

*

“Okay,” said Elder Hummel as they pedaled down Jahnstraße. “What’s the most memorable birthday present you ever got?”

“That’s easy,” said Blaine. “Yodeling.”

“Doesn't count. It hasn't entered your long-term memory yet.”

“Oh, fine.” Blaine scanned his memory, but the first present that popped in his head was … maybe not the best one. He’d opened it on his eighteenth birthday during a break in general conference. His dad had accompanied it with a note that said, In anticipation of your ordination into the Melchizedek priesthood and an ominous-sounding scripture quote: Wherefore, he will preserve the righteous by his power, even if it so be that the fulness of his wrath must come, and the righteous be preserved, even unto the destruction of their enemies by fire.—1 Nephi 22:17

Blaine had opened the small jewelry box expecting another CTR ring, or maybe a tie pin of the Iron Rod. When he saw what was inside, he was confused: a brightly polished rifle cartridge, its brass case gleaming threateningly in the living room light.

It took an aunt leaning over his shoulder and exclaiming, “Well, that’s a unique consecrated oil vial!” for Blaine to see the chain attached to the bullet.

“Oh!” Blaine said. “How unique.”

“Made from a real 223 Remington shell!” his granddad said proudly.

Blaine couldn't decide whether his grandfather had picked the present out in a lucid moment or a senile one. They’d gone hunting together a few times when he’d been younger, but Blaine had never liked it. Philosophically, he wasn’t opposed to killing for food, but he didn’t enjoy it. His granddad did, though. Not just for food, but for trophies, too. He was the kind of guy who believed that nature was there to be conquered, that God had given men dominion over all other creatures to do with as they wished.

Blaine thanked his granddad for the gift. But he would never, ever put consecrated oil inside something meant to cause death.

Yeah. That memorable present was definitely out. Blaine searched further. “When my mom said I could keep Buttercup.”

“Your cat?”

“Yeah. The first of many. Poor mom didn’t know what she was getting into. Though … the actual birthday present was a cat tower, all wrapped up in ribbons that of course Buttercup tried to eat. When I walked in from school and saw it in the living room, I started crying. It’s the first time I can remember crying out of joy.”

In middle school health class, Blaine’s physical education teacher had told the boys it got harder to cry once you hit puberty—something about testosterone blocking the water works. And maybe that was a little true. Blaine didn’t cry over bumped knees or twisted ankles as easily as he had when he was younger. But emotional things—he felt them more deeply. When he was little, he’d never understood why the men in his ward got all choked up and teary when they bore their testimony. But in that moment when he knew that Buttercup was staying with him, he got it. Sometimes the love you felt inside was so big, it spilled out through your eyes.