Chapter 8

Songs used in this chapter:

Ryan Cabrera - It's You
Dashboard Confessional - Again I Go Unnoticed
Hanson - A Minute Without You

Authors Note: Surprise! My reasoning is this: theres a big chapter coming up that I want to post by itself and I had to change the schedule a little bit in order for that to happen. The next update comes Thursday, then Sunday. Then, Im breaking for Christmas! Come talk to me on Tumblr? /becausehiships. Enjoy!

The baby grand piano in the first-floor sitting room is more of a conversation piece than anything, especially recently.  Ivory contrasts with black and the gold lining around the edges are pristine and newly retouched.  It's lonely but perfectly tuned religiously three times a year.  Some may argue that was excessive, that a Steinway only really requires it every six months.  His mother is obsessive with her “investments,” his father pays the bill. 

The bench is covered with black crushed velvet, the pedals are metallic gold, and the cover is left ajar as a bragging right to the perfectly tuned and clean inside.  It is a work of art, an instrument to showcase wealth, appreciation for the arts, and class.

Nobody ever sits in the sitting room.  Blaine's annoyed that they even have a sitting room, and a set of home offices for both parents, and a fucking library.  Who needs a personal library when there's one right on Main Street in Lima?  The piano, however, is definitely his favorite object in the house. 

It is a statement piece that has been in the corner since Blaine could remember, opposite the large and overbearing gold harp that no one ever touched.  He used to rehearse all the time on the piano for himself and can recall times when he would put on concerts for his mother before she was such an ungrateful, undeserving of his love or appreciation bitch, before he came out to his parents at fourteen.  As much as he is comfortable in his own skin and simply does not give a fuck what others may think of him, Blaine sometimes wishes he could go back to Easy Street, when he knew that at least a few people were on his side. 

His parents have finally left on their excursion.  They are currently cruising the Mediterranean for the week, with a layover in Barcelona on the way home, because why not?  Cooper and his girlfriend were invited but declined when Cooper noticed that Blaine was never even offered a spot on the plane or the ship.  Blaine doesn't mind in the slightest; he has eleven days of bliss doing whatever the fuck he wants, and absolutely no way of getting the shit beat out of him.  In retrospect, Blaine Anderson is having a pretty good week.

He sits down and shifts on the bench to play a chord, shyly touching his fingers against the ivory and black, for the first time in nearly a year.  It feels good, like this is where he's supposed to be.  He figures that the feeling only counts if it's examined that he's sitting at a baby grand piano, not necessarily within his shitty family's house, with a ball and chain on his ankle for the next however the fuck long.  He stops the aimless practice of random chords and brushes his left hand the wrong way against the velvet; he wants to make sure he can still feel the irritation it brings; he wants to make sure he can still feel at all.  He shivers; there's something about velvet laid the wrong way against his skin.   

He raises his hands back to the keys and plays a melody that's always stuck with him, but for the first time in his life he understands why.  He starts to sing. 

I'm standing before you with this label on my head
I'm pleading before you for you to understand
How much I adore you
I'll be there til the end

When everything falls down
Will you hold my hand?

Baby, it's you
When I look up in the sky, I see you
Then I turn and close my eyes and it's you
When I'm sitting all alone in my room
Everything reminds me of you

He stops abruptly to wipe at the moisture from his eyes.  He's not sure where all of this sensitivity is coming from, but he needs to strengthen himself.  No one can see him like this.  They can't think he's gone soft.  It's a good thing he's alone.  He's alone in a world of monsters, and it's only here, in the empty and spacious sitting room, that Blaine can really allow his strings to unravel, even if it's only for a few minutes.  It's only here that he can be true to his feelings on the inside, and work to show them on the outside.

There are very few things he wouldn't sacrifice to give in and genuinely cry.  For just one minute, he wants to abandon the constant performance of hard-ass and just cry.  He is yearning to put his trust in Kurt and empty all of his baggage directly onto his lap, hardly even packed properly, just thrown haphazardly into the suitcase.  Kurt would probably want to rearrange and refold anyway.

He wants to rely on someone; he wants to know that whatever problem or abnormality is going on this person wouldn't leave him.  He doesn't want to be ignored anymore.  He wants all of the above with Kurt.

He can't comprehend why Kurt continues to resist his body, his ability to maybe even love.  Blaine's never been in love before; he doesn't know how it feels.  He hopes that it's close to the way he feels for Kurt. 

He thinks that maybe Kurt could be the love of his life, if he'd just let him.

His forehead comes toppling down onto the piano keys.  He is desperate for Kurt to be honest with him.  The agonizing feeling of what if he doesn't want me like I want him rips through his heart at every waking moment.  He knows there must be some level of mutual attraction; he knows that he swears they can't continue not because of the age difference, but because of the fact that Blaine isn't legal.  He curses 1995 with every vein in his body.  Why couldn't it have been 1993? The difference of twenty-four months seems like not a big deal at all, but it's the biggest deal of all.  Fuck.

Blaine feels obsessed… bewitched… tormented every time he stares at Kurt's wide eyes staring back into his.  They're always, without fail, as clear as the water in St. Tropez, and he loved the hooded, dark look that he felt in his bones right before the kiss.  He loved the doe-eyed appearance the baby blues demonstrated when he went down on the banana.  He loved the look of fear and lust that was shining through at exactly the same time every time Kurt has looked at him in the past. 

He is convinced this is love, if only within Kurt's eyes.  The luscious, strawberry-flavored lips that moved with his own, inviting him to drink him all in.  Blaine was wasted on Kurt's kiss, and still can't shake the hangover.  Every part of Kurt is stunning, and Blaine doesn't want to shake him; he can't think of going on without him.  Not now that he's had his taste.

Something snaps in Blaine.  All of the resistance and pretending that he doesn't need anyone for months, for years, has burst alongside his tear ducts. Of course he wants Kurt as his boyfriend.  Of course he needs someone beside him to just be.  

He lifts his head and changes his soundtrack.  He has a knack for turning anything, regardless of the pace, into a flawless piano ballad. 

He hits record on his iPhone and proceeds. 

I'll wait until tomorrow
Maybe you'll feel better then
Maybe we'll be better then
So what's another day
When I can't bear these nights of thoughts
Of going on without you
This mood of yours is temporary
It seems worth the wait
To see your smile again

Blaine:  ~Video Attachment~

xK&Bx

Kurt watches the video from Blaine three times before he deems it totally inappropriate to be grinning, curled up in the fetal position on his bed like he's in damn high school again.  He graduated from high school ten years ago.  Which was when Blaine was entering middle school, or something. 

His apartment is eerily silent, aside from Blaine's serenade coming out of his iPhone's speaker.  He hits play for the fourth time, throws the phone on his bed, and sways into the home office to grab his laptop.  The music is somewhat muffled, but he can still hear the words clearly.  Blaine's song continues, even after he comes back to his room.  He plops down Indian style at the foot of the bed, and presses random keys to bring the screen to life.  He clicks on his “BLAINE” file, and types. 

Artsy, singer, piano, emotional.

God. I've got it real bad.

He slams the computer down, hits stop on his phone, and puts the closest pair of shoes on.  The phone call earlier in the week was cryptic and Burt won't leave him alone about how mysterious Kurt has been.  He owes him an explanation.  He starts to drive.  His phone is buzzing the whole wayo Burt's house. 

xK&Bx

Blaine:  Do you like it?
Blaine:  I think it explains a lot about what I'm feeling.
Blaine:  Pretty boy.
Blaine:  I'm home alone. Come over?
Blaine:  Sorry, nevermind… just fucking ignore that.  I really shouldn't have sent that over.  Sorry. 
Kurt:  At my dad's.  See you at the Bean in the morning.  J

xK&Bx

There's a lot of screaming, too much yelling.  Kurt feels like a seventeen-year-old himself, not just infatuated with one.  Burt's role in Kurt's life, since day one, has always been to protect, to be honest, and to support.  He's got it almost right for this conversation.  He's protecting, he's honest, but he is doing whatever it is to be the complete opposite of supportive. 

“Kurt.  Your abiding love for this seriously fucked up kid will be even deeper when you are an inmate and you see him once a fucking month during your fucking conjugal visits.  You will engage in sexual intercourse with your seventeen-year-old lover in a 4x4 box with no windows.  Do you want that, Kurt?”  Burt's face is red hot and he's pacing in long strides across the kitchen.  The neighborhood could hear the conversation, seemingly one-sided to them.  

“Please don't say sexual intercourse.”

Kurt's father calms and sits across from his son at the table and pats the top of his hand, “Kurt.  This is really not a good idea at all.”

“He'll be eighteen…”

“Listen, kid.  I know that when it comes to love… and dating, you've really gotten the short end of the stick.  There are far less options here than New York, and even in New York, you were dealt a bad hand.  But that doesn't mean that you need to jump this boy just because…”

“Dad!” Kurt interrupts, “That is not what this is about!  He and I… we're...”  Kurt sighs.  We're magnetic, drawn to each other… it all sounds so obsessive, like I belong in a fucking straight jacket.  “We have this crazy connection I've never had with anyone.  Anyone, Dad.  He makes me feel connected, and like, safe even though he himself is not safe at all.  I'm not sure I should be willing to give that up just because he wasn't born in a year that might be more ideal for me.”  This is the first time since knowing Blaine that he has admitted the fact that he wants Blaine as more than just an underaged regular customer.  He shakes his head and pounds his fist into the table.  “Dad, I'm scared.”

Burt's eyebrows soften.  “When will he be eighteen?”

“He's seventeen now… so… less than a year?  Soon.”  Kurt looks up and Burt swears he is six-years-old again. 

Burt sighs heavily, “Kurt.”  He brushes some hair out of his son's flustered face, “You don't know… what's his name?”

“Blaine.” Kurt provides, with the slightest of smiles.

“Blaine.  You don't know Blaine well enough to know his birthday, you don't know him well enough to figure out if you want to date him.”

Kurt nods slightly.  He does, though.  He really wants to date him.

“Try being friends with him first.  But Kurt, for the record, I still don't think this is a good idea.  I just can't support this, not yet.”

“I know, Dad.  Thank you for trying.”

“I'm not-”

“Just thank you.”

xK&Bx

Blaine finds it strange to have the run of the house.  He feels free.  He is finally able to be himself without the pressure of being watched or judged.  He dances, he plays music, he learns new songs.  He finally fucking feels like him.

His phone is attached to him at all times, in case Kurt wants to text him more than the bland response to his over-admitting love song, as he dances through the kitchen to an old, pretty embarrassing Hanson song, all the while singing at the top of his lungs into a spatula. 

Cuz when the minutes seem like hours and the hours seem like days
Then a week goes by you know it takes my breath away
All the minutes in the world could never take your place
There's one-thousand-four-hundred-forty hours in my day

The volume of the top-of-the-line stereo system is superior to a party; the knock at the door goes unnoticed. 

I've been trying to call you all day, cuz I got so many things that I want to say
I'm going crazy
Cuz all my thoughts are filled with you
There's got to be some way I can get through to you ohhhh

He twirls and lets his falsetto die in his throat at the unexpected sight of Ms. Santana Lopez.  His face flushes a deep maroon and he scurries to stop the music.  He stalks back to the kitchen and channels whatever he can to appear unfazed by any feeling at all.

“This is what your people would call breaking and entering, Stiletto.”

“You would know, wouldn't you?” 

Blaine stares, jaw dropped just enough to constitute it as open.

“Look kid.  I need you to just listen to me when I talk to you right now, so I can put it in that stupid file of yours that I've tried.  The other day at the Lima Bean wasn't enough.  We need to get an actual schedule together.”

“You can really try, I'll really listen.”  Blaine opens the refrigerator and hands her a bottle of water, then sits at the kitchen table and eyes the chair across from him as an invitation.  She accepts it and leans forward, seemingly bracing herself for what could be a very serious conversation.  “Kurt says…”

“Are you and Hummel fucking?”  Santana tilts her mouth into a sly smile as soon as the words flow.  Blinking rapidly, she seems nervous.

“What's it to you?”  Santana raises an eyebrow. Blaine always feels defeated around Santana Lopez, regardless of how amateur she looks herself sometimes, “No.  We're… we're friends.  I just go to the Lima Bean a lot.”

“So I've heard.  You just talk about him every time I talk to you.” Sighing, she says, “When are you going to go back school?”

“He's our common denominator, Lopez.  I feel comfortable talking about him to you because he is a mutual friend.  And regarding school, fuck you, it's summer.”

“Doesn't mean you can't register.  Blaine, I need you to try school again.  Please.  You need to understand that we will have no control over what they do to you and me if you don't go to school this year.  Those guys back at the courthouse are heinous motherfuckers.  They want to see kids like you fall and burn to the ground, do you know that?”

“Sure do.  You wouldn't understand how much actually, Striptease.”

“When we become friends, you better still call me that.  It does something to a girl's ego.”

“We're not friends.”  Blaine growls.

“When we become friends, Blaine.  I swear you said you were going to listen?”

“Whatever.”

“And you need to find a job.”

“My job, Ms. Lopez, is to stay alive.”  There are pieces of his soul breaking with each word that escapes.

“What's going on with you?  What are you running from?”

“I can't talk about it.”

“Is your problem your parents?”

Just like that, Blaine's attitude is back.  He can't believe he ever trusted Kurt and actually confided in him, as little as he did.  It was out in the open and now everything is going to be shot to fucking hell. 

“Whatever Kurt said to you is a fucking lie, capisce?  I said I can't fucking talk about it.”  Dad would kill me. 

“He didn't breathe a word, Anderson.  Just a lucky guess.”

“No such thing.  And if he didn't say anything, how the fuck did you get my number the other day?  He's the only one that has it!  Literally, like… the only person in the world.”

“And also the public record when you opted out of the Blocked Number feature with Verizon, hot shot.  Now, shut up.”

“Whatever, Striptease.”  He sighs and continues, “You didn't just guess my daddy issues.”  Blaine is not convinced, not in the slightest.  “Kurt had to have told you.  He's the only one who knows.  God dammit, I'm so fucking stupid!”  This is what happens when you trust.  People let you down. 

“I'm a juvenile parole officer.  Before this, I worked in New York City, chasing after homeless kids who refused to stay at their group homes after being taken away for exactly what you're going through right now.  You think I haven't seen it all?  You have all the signs that you fucking hate your father, and he hates you right back.  For being gay, huh?  Do you want me to do something about it?  You're over sixteen so it's not the law I report it, but I would do anything to see your asshole of a father get locked up for putting a hand on you.”  Santana takes a breath.  Her face is red and she's flailing around the room.  If she isn't passionate, Blaine's not sure he'll ever know what passionate is. 

Santana looks at him and tilts her head.  “I assure you, we talk about a lot of things, but Kurt and me do not talk about you, and it's not because I don't want to.  I beg him every time.”

“Oh, do you now?”

“Shut it, Anderson.  We don't talk about you!  He says he knows nothing.  I know he's really fucking loyal and over-trusting, but I can't believe he'd lie to me for you.  He's a really, really loyal friend to have.”  She says with a grin.  It's obvious this is a delayed icebreaker.

“Oh yeah, cuz I'm not worth someone lying for,” the sarcasm dripping from his scowl.  “You know, fuck you.  Get the fuck out of my house.”

“That's not what I meant and you know it.  You know what I see when I read your file, Blaine?  I see a kid who's an absolute fucking genius, who can whip himself up and around any GED test, SAT test, whatever test without studying at all. I see a kid who's never had the love and support any teenager needs, but still fucking survived.  So you're delaying this school thing because you want someone to push you back into a normal place where you can actually meet people and excel.  Well here I am, your Fairy Striptease Godmother.  I'll do it because they won't, because your parents have some skewed view of reality that you can't choose who you want to spend your life with.  That you love boys, that you love boys the same way you're supposed to feel about girls.  You're waiting for them to notice that you're doing something for yourself that could better your life and that you're doing it on your own.  You want to rely on someone, and your stupid fucking parents are not interested because you'd rather date a boy than a girl.  Who ever said heterosexuality is normal, and everything else is uncalled for and taboo, huh?  But when we suggest that they should try being gay, it's offensive and being straight is what they are, it's in their bones.  But it's different for us.  And then, I know you're going through the whole conflict of whether or not you want to let Kurt in, because he's someone who would push you until he knew the whole story, and no one can know the whole history of Blaine Anderson, right?  That's opening you up to all of the trust issues you've always had.”  Blaine stares back at her, freezing all of his subtle movements and with a faint glisten to his eyes.  She continues because she knows she's hit a nerve.

“I'll bet you don't even recognize yourself at this point.  You have this GPS attached to your ankle, and you've stolen shit, and you talk back to people in authority, and you feel like your parents would rather never see you again, and you can't even remember the path that got you here.  Because you were at Dalton this time last year, on the fast track to Ivy League, and now you're just… lost.”  She stares at him.  “Right?”

Blaine nods once, allowing a single tear to fall before he scurries to wipe at it.  He can't have Santana notice. 

Santana notices.

“As much as I hate the idea, Kurt's friendship is going to be good for you.  You need to confide in him; you need to let him in, and you don't have to worry about him coming back to me, he doesn't break anyone's trust, ever.  He's the exact type of person you need in your life.  But I'll have you know that he is too trusting and yearning for anything that remotely looks like someone cares for him, especially after his brother died, so you take advantage of that and you join Finn up there with Fat Elvis.  Kurt has me behind him always, and I have razors in my hair, do you understand that, lover boy?”

Blaine stares back at the crazy fucking bitch flailing her arms and pacing in his kitchen.  What the actual fuck is this girl on?

“You know he's the one who helped me?  I was even more lost than you, literally working at a lesbian's tourist trap, dancing on tables in my underwear in the West Village.  I just came out to my grandmother, she totally disowned me, and so I ran and I knocked on his door a thousand miles later.  He took me in and was there for me every step of the way.  I was dealing with so much stupid shit, and I'd cry and cry.  He never judged; he never told me to snap out of it, no matter how many times he needed to change his shirt from his stupid boney Moulin Rouge-loving shoulder being soaked by my tears.  I'm only okay now, because he was there then.”  Blaine has allowed several drops of saline fall from his eyes, but wipes them just as quickly as before.

Blaine laughs at the reference to Moulin Rouge.  “He made me watch Moulin Rouge too.  What the fuck kind of drugs do you need to understand that shit?”

“If I see Satine cough up blood one more time-”

Blaine lets out a heavy laugh, cracking a genuine grin across the planes of his face.  “He seems pretty amazing.”

“You know what your number one problem is, Blaine Anderson?  You need to get the fuck away from these small town blues.  Nothing, and I mean nothing, is here for people like us.  At least, when we are seventeen.  You want to go to college?” 

Blaine shrugs.  “Probably not.  Not anymore.”

“Well, first step is finishing your senior year.  You won't go back to Dalton?” 

Blaine shakes his head and looks into her eyes for the first time, well, ever. 

“Why not?”

Blaine looks away.  “It's-  I don't belong there with them anymore.”

“Say no more.  High school sucks.  I went to McKinley and it was almost bearable.  Will you try it?” 

Blaine shrugs. 

“I'll be in touch, then.  Answer your damn phone when I call.”

Santana leans back, satisfied the answer wasn't “no.”  She wipes her own tears and disappears from the Anderson household as quickly as she tornadoed through.

xK&Bx
“I broke some ground with your boy, today.”  Santana says in lieu of a greeting.

“Hi, Kurt, my friend.  How are you?  Such wonderful weather we're having, I haven't spoken to you in so many days even though I'm local again, I thought I'd give my amazing friend that always supports me in everything I do a call to see what's up and how he's been.  So how are you, Kurt?  Kurt?  Kurt?”  Kurt replies, sarcasm soiling the carpet below him.

Kurt's heart is palpitating; he's apprehensive to gain knowledge of what crude comment must have come out of Blaine's mouth this time.  If Santana ever found out about the kiss… God.  Both he and Santana know damn well that he covered every nervous ping with over-the-top sarcasm.  If she catches on this time, though, there is no mention.

“Shut it, Hummel.  He thought you snitched on him and his daddy issues.”

“What?  I haven't told a soul… fuck!”

Santana laughs, “Shut up, the kid has it written all over him.  I didn't even have to work hard toward guessing that shit.  Relax.”

“What did he say?”

“Well what he didn't say was more important.  He didn't blow the fucking lid when I suggested school might be a good idea.  Not to mention, a requirement to keep him from getting locked up again.”

“God.”

“Yeah.  So I planted the seed and you're going to water that shit and watch it grow into an adorable fairy-flavored daisy, okay?”

“What?  Santana, I am not your accomplice.  Only one of us gets paid to watch him.”  But I don't want him in jail. 

“Love you, sweet cheeks.  I'll call back for a progress report tomorrow! Muah!”  Santana hangs up to the obnoxious sound of an overexaggerated kiss.

God fucking dammit, I hate that bitch. 

xK&Bx

Kurt:  Heard you had a run-in with the witch of the west.
Blaine:  Maybe, is the one from the west worse than the one from the east?
Kurt:  Dropping a house validates evil, regardless of who's better or worse, B.

Blaine's new nickname is all he could have ever wanted to read at this very moment.  He knows for a fact that his heart skips a beat.

Kurt:  She didn't say anything too obnoxious, did she?
Blaine:  Wouldn't you like to know?
Kurt:  Yes.
Blaine:  Goodnight, pretty boy.
Blaine:  I called her ‘Striptease.'  Help me spread the nickname.
Kurt:  J  It's fitting. 
Kurt: See you tomorrow.  One croissant and Medium Drip, coming right up!
Blaine:  Switch it up.  Surprise me.
Kurt:  Done and done.
Blaine:  Thank you.  Seriously.