Synopsis:  In a world where extreme opposites cant help but attract, never to leave one another alone again, rock bottom is just the beginning.

For Blaine, rock bottom turns him right side up and suddenly he doesnt feel like running anymore.  He finds a beautiful, ethereal, much-older man in Kurt, the owner of the coffee shop Blaine escapes to for shelter from the constant black cloud that follows him everywhere he goes.  The Lima Bean is, gratefully, within the boundaries of the allowed radius Blaines constricted to after stealing a thesaurus (of all thing) and he falls into a routine with Kurt without effort, seamlessly inserting himself into the mans life, forcing his way inside his heart.

Reluctant to truly live his life without the people hes lost, Kurt keeps Blaine at arms length until its time to let go and learn more about either of them than he could have ever wanted to handle.  With one look at Blaine, Kurt quickly realizes that he is seemingly only attracted to seventeen-year-old faux bad boys who desperately need saving and that he must resist if he doesnt want to end up slaughtered by his fellow Midwesterners or in jail.  He learns that Blaines father is a callus, homophobic man threatening all that he is only because Blaine is attracted to other boys the way he should love girls.  Kurt leads them both down a dark, twisting path toward recovery and they find a way to fall in love, against all odds. 

Its a story of loving someone despite where they come from, despite their past.  Take All That I Am revels in the differences that make life interesting, and relationships that shouldnt be but are.

***

Authors Note/Warnings:  Instead of giving away the plot at the beginning of each crazy chapter, Ive decided to post a huge warning at the beginning of this story.  This is not a fanfic you want to bring home to your parents, you guys, and its definitely not a story you want to get caught reading in class, at work, or anywhere else.  You need to be over the age of eighteen to read this please, mainly because I dont want to offend anyone and although I play with the law in this fictional piece of work, the sexiness of Chris Colfers and Darren Crisss characters in Glee being the main point of inspiration, I dont condone pretty much anything negative in this story.  At the end of the day, it is a love story, but I need you all to understand that it takes a lot to get there for our boys. 

First and foremost, there is an insane amount of dirty language, an indescribable amount of f-bombs, explicit sexual references, verbal and emotional violence and abuse, self-deprecation from both Kurt and Blaine, tons of homophobic slurs, seriously shitty parents, mentions of deep homophobia from family members and strangers, intense violence, severe bullying at home, and blink-and-you-miss-it references to hookers, prostitution, drugs, and underage alcohol consumption.  I need to make sure you all understand that the theme and tone of this piece of writing is not happy and fluffy all the time, but it gets there.

This warning also serves as a friendly reminder that I believe in the happy ending (its all Ive got!) and although I may play a lot with your emotions in this one, please remember that our boys are into each other "fearlessly and forever. 

In Take All That I Am, Finn Hudson existed at one point as Kurt Hummels stepbrother the same way we saw on the show, but has passed away before the story picks up.  Hes been gone for a few years and there are several references to him.  He dated Rachel in the same way as Glee, and Carole and Burt got together in exactly the same way as well.  It all makes sense when you read it, I promise, and Finns death is a huge part of Kurts characterization and reasoning behind some of the actions toward Blaine and other characters in the story.

There are a few original characters in this one, as well as some appearances from our favorite (and not so favorite...) Glee-based friends.  Mostly, they exist as supporting roles with the exception of Blaines father.  Hes the main troublemaker, but keep in mind that this story is mostly about Kurt and Blaine. 

This is an alternative universe fanfiction in which there is an age-gap between Kurt and Blaine.  Although Kurt Hummel and Blaine Anderson (and their Glee-related friends) exist, theres not much that stays within character as you see on the show.  Kurt is eleven years Blaines senior, and Blaine can be classified as a "bad boy."  Their relationship is eventually sexual, so you need to be prepared for mostly Blaine as a bottom, but they do switch and return favors frequently.  As far as the other sex-related warnings go, you will read and hopefully not be offended by the following:  anal penetration, intense orgasms, light d/s and bondage, sex in public, slut-shaming, dubious consent, rimming, barebacking, mentions of rape and potentially illegal interactions, oral sex on both penises and bananas, tons of sex thats more than vanilla, and angst during sex. 

This all comes from my seriously messed up head, and although I am very proud of this piece of work, I couldnt possibly let all of the above go unsaid.  Please, please, please let me know if you come across something else offensive that should be mentioned here. 

This story is finished and completely edited, so Ill be posting one chapter on Thursdays and one chapter on Sundays for the next twelve weeks.  That means this story is twenty-four chapters.  

I couldnt have done this with the support of the following people: 

First, my editor-in-chief, amazing, great friend whos never afraid to play devils advocate for every single detail in my life, in Chris Colfers and Darren Crisss lives, and within the realm of this fanfiction, Cyn.  The backbone of this story was all me, but she approved every single word and spent so much time teaching me about commas and vocabulary and characterization; my sincere thanks goes out to her.  When I didnt remember the differences between drafts (and oh my god, lets talk about how many drafts she read), she kindly reminded me and was more than happy to perfect the sex in a way I couldnt even read it anymore.  When I became so indulged in each paragraph, she forced me to look at the big picture and truly appreciate the world I created.  I am speechless when I think about the amount of support and knowledge shes given me, in a way I never ever thought I deserved.  She single-handedly helped me cross something huge off of my bucket list, and for that I am always grateful.  On top of all of that, shes an incredible friend and Im so happy I was on Twitter that one day.  Please follow her, shes hilarious and perfect, and every Glee fan should know her.  @CynicalGlee.

Secondly, my cheerleaders that hate Christian more than I do (youll see, youll all see), Christine, Kelly, and Jess.  You guys saw the story at its worst and still supported me and all of my decisions to keep making Christian even meaner, and even though you cried during every chapter, you urged me to keep going and keep editing.  You convinced me that it was good enough to get to this point, and Im here because of you. 

I think thats all I have for now.  Please dont hesitate to send me questions or comments by both reviewing on here or on my Tumblr - becausehiships.tumblr.com. 

Thanks for reading and reviewing!  Enjoy!

Chapter 1

May 2013

“I'm sure we'll see this fucking homo here again sooner than later, huh Marty?” 

“I'd put my damn 67 Corvette on it, boss.”  They cackle.

The clunk of the metal pinches his skin just right as the police officer in the seriously unflattering uniform tightens it around his Achilles' heel, and it feels like the blood is forever separated from his toes.  With every step, a constant snag – the ultimate reminder of failure.  The little black box constricting his ankle is all too heavy to lug for the next twenty-four months, so he makes a pact with himself that he will get this shit taken off entirely before twenty fucking fifteen.  His over-protective, over-zealous brother is literally staring him down from the corner with his left arm crossed over his right, and a grin on his face obviously mocking the system.  The boy marks an imaginary “X” over his heart with his right pinkie and rolls his eyes at the cops laughing at him before striding out of the courthouse without so much as a “fuck you” to anyone.

Cooper is calling after him to slow the fuck down, for God's sake.  “Dude, all I wanted to do was spend the weekend with my baby bro, and now you're out here getting arrested?  I'm home for twenty-four hours and all you can do is steal from a bookstore?  Really Blaine?”

He huffs and throws up a middle finger, slides down the banister, and barrels into the parking lot in front of him.  His brother stops dead at the sight of a sexy blonde lawyer type and about-faces to follow her in the opposite direction, and only then does Blaine kneel down on the grass.  He knows he's lost Cooper at least for a few hours.

“See you at home, Blainers!  I have some business to take care of…” Cooper trails off over his shoulder and disappears around the corner, producing mint-flavored breath spray to shoot into his mouth before running his fingers through his hair and following the woman to attempt a conversation.

Rolling his eyes, Blaine empties the clear Ziploc bag containing all his stuff.  He shuffles through his iPhone, his headphones, sixty bucks, and the American Express.  Gathering everything in one blow and shoving most into his back pocket, he rises and moves quickly down the street, seamlessly inserting his headphone into one ear and hitting play, disappearing into his now four-mile world.  At least it's not house arrest; that particular prison is one in all of itself.  Every night at home is like twenty-five to life.

He leans down as he walks, brushes off the bits of grass plastered to his knees, and rubs his palm across the indentation that the blades of green harshly left behind.  He's spiraling down into the black abyss and can't seem to fight the rip tide of going under. 

It's safe to say that Blaine Anderson doesn't give a fuck.  He hasn't given a flying fuck east or west since he was expelled from the Dalton Academy for Boys last year.  Always-in-the-wrong-place-at-the-wrong-time Blaine Anderson was expelled with a few of his Warbler buddies when one of them decided it would be a fantastic idea to make sure his marijuana was still in his pocket as they walked together down to English class.  A small baggie falling out of his pocket at exactly the perfect time for a teacher to pass ended Blaine's career of genius talent at Dalton. 

Blaine couldn't care less about leaving school; it's easier to hide away now. His days are filled with roaming the streets in his lonesome and staying as far away as he can from his father.  Petty theft has become his hobby of choice. Stealing out of sheer boredom has its perks, but there are certainly plenty of negative aspects, too.  Of course, there's the fact that Christian Anderson, his father, could find out, and plus he didn't even get to keep the stuff this time.  Let's not forget to mention this fucking GPS attached to my body.  Fuck the man.

"Hey!  Come back here, kid.  Hey! Blaine!"  A stilettoed Latina is tracking behind, latching her palm to his shoulder in an effort to slow him.

"We have to talk about your conditions.  Hey.  Are you okay?"

He turns and creates a scowl from the thin line of his mouth, successfully finding the essentially intimidating noise in the back of his throat, and curls his top lip in disgust. He rolls his eyes, reluctantly sinking into the bench on the side of the square of grass that almost resembles a common area on a college campus.  Almost doesn't count, Anderson. 

The area is busy, bustling with guilties and innocents and lawyers awaiting the next court hearing or discussing in enough detail to get their stories straight. There are faceless men with cheap suits lounging on the benches in the park over their deli sandwiches and single serve chips and diet sodas and there are children on leashes and mothers on cell phones not paying attention, soaking in the sunshine, their heads angled for a perfect swift kick to the jugular.  Finally, spring has sprung.

He inhales the warm air deeply and turns to her, turning to him. She supplies him with an overstuffed and clearly aged manila folder, curling at the corners with a growing rip at the bottom crease. Anderson, B.

"Im your counselor."  Shes too young to be a fucking professional.  She takes a breath, "The rules now.  Dont explore beyond the four mile radius, please… for the love of all things holy.  I drew you a map; it's in your file. I umm… highlighted it for you so you dont get confused." She tilts her head, looking anywhere but his eyes.  Her voice is lower. "You need to find a job." There is no response from him. He sits.  She continues. "You need to go back to school, Blaine.  Join a club. Keep up on your homework.  It's the only way we can keep you out of trouble with the court.  These conditions are coming straight from the big wigs in the offices up there."  On the bench, she slides closer to him; he jerks farther down the bench and slumps, spreading his legs in an effort to look tough or manly.  He's pretty sure he'll never pass for a man, not with his wide-eyed stare or his petite stature, and the fact that he's so obviously gay.  Am I obviously gay?  Fuck Christian Anderson, how the hell could he tell?  Snapping back to reality, he hears the last of this lady's lecture.  "…These are the conditions, and if all goes well, we might be able to get that thing off your ankle in twelve months or so instead of twenty-four."

Hes shaking his head with fury throughout the part of the speech she clearly practiced in the mirror before facing him.  "How the fuck am I supposed to get a job, lady?  With this thing on fucking display?"  No one wants me.  No one will ever want me.  He hides his true feelings of rejection and replaces them with that of faux anger.  Hes not angry, not really.  Maybe just a little, but thats at himself, not this professional fucking speech giver slut girl.  He finds himself rattling his ankle dramatically and forcefully as if to dislocate the joint, like a dog after hes been chased with a hose, fur plastered down like cement against its skin.
"You can get a job like anyone else who goes into places and applies. Except unlike the little brats of West Lima who need gas money, your well-being depends on it. You get a job or you get locked up.  Again." She shrugs. "Your choice completely.”

"Better than school." He deadpans. Or living with Daddy Dearest. 

"My card is in the file. Well see or talk to each other weekly.  Stay within the map!" She stands, spins on her toes, and disappears toward the courthouse.  Blaine stands and continues in the opposite direction toward Main Street. He is easily amused by himself; he is huffing when he realizes that totally just looked like a drug deal, until he forgot the God damned folder out of rage and sincere desire to just get the fuck out of here.  He peaks over his shoulder carefully to ensure he wont have to interact with her again and retreats, almost tip toes, back to the bench. He slams the folder against his chest and continues his journey and his “Im So Angry at the World” playlist.

***

He follows his familiar footsteps without thought, although heavier and dragging almost to the point of an uncomfortable annoyance on the left side.  He just needs to get used to the added weight.  The course is a jagged one with no true direction; Lima is, generally speaking, a grid.  Its hard to get lost, as much as hes wanted to in the past.  He finds himself hyperventilating as he strides widely onto the street he grew up on.  As soon as he turns, every time, he is impaled with anxiety, nothing more or less than straight-up fear.  Hes thrown by it, swaying in a zigzag from one curb to the opposite and back again.  He shakes and flushes as he works his way through the gate and on the incline up the driveway, climbing the three stairs onto the pretentious mansions devious wraparound porch that doesnt fit in with the rest of the homes in the (also pretentious) neighborhood.  A grey the color of his shadow, the house sits on the top of the hill at the end of the cul-de-sac. This place where he is instructed to call home is anything but.  It sweats desperation and hatred for what one does not choose to be.  It screams absence and the sincere lack of whatever family he needs.  He stands blankly in front of the door, glancing down at his throbbing ankle.  He has nothing to hide it; he cant hide the visibly pulsing vein, writhing with an inexplicable feeling to escape its captive state, to grasp onto the freedom of pulsing as largely as it would have liked. After running through the typical options, he lands on his usual game plan that only works about twenty percent of the time:  simply get to the bedroom, lock the door, and wait for the parents to leave. 

This game plan, like so many times before, is a failing one. Today, the game plan is even worse, because he cant hide the vein and the metal black box and the rage and the self-deprecation. 

Hes so frustrated with himself, not for committing the crime but for getting caught for this second time.  He didnt even want the Thinker's Thesaurus and the Moleskine Weekly Planner, not that badly.  He knows, however, that he gets off on cheap thrills, and returning the merchandise hes stolen is the greatest of backup plans if the parental units ever cut him off or cancel the credit card.  He only steals from small establishments with no true “receipt to return” policy.  Its a misdemeanor as long as the merchandise stays under five hundred dollars, but apparently getting nailed for the same crime twice in one year puts you in juvenile detention for twenty-four hours "to scare you" and then results in clutching the monitor to your ankle until the end of time.  Or maybe this whole ordeal was special treatment because his last name, they know, is Anderson.  Maybe the assholes at the courthouse thought they were doing him a favor by sending him home, but its probably accurate that they knew exactly what they were doing by determining his destiny, knowing Mr. Christian Anderson, all-hail-the-king Christian fucking Anderson.

Blaine doesnt understand how there could be so many homophobic fuckers in one state.  Hell, in one tiny rural Western Ohio city.  Town.  Lima is such a small town, of which no one gets out alive.  Granted, hes never met another openly gay boy here, and it might have been a bit more bearable with a hot piece of ass, but maybe hes never met any because they are all such geniuses to stay in the closet.  He used to carry an emergency condom with him everywhere, just in case he found the opportunity to make this place a little bit better, but gave up when his father found it in his pocket one Wednesday afternoon.  Blaine wonders if he ever would have questioned his sexuality without Greg in his eighth grade class, back when the Andersons lived in Westerville.  To this day, though, Blaine fails to regret his decision to come out.  He yearns for comfort within himself, if with no one else.  Hes taking care of himself; he is all he has. 

He grasps the doorknob and pauses to breathe before turning and pushing the door open.  A thick layer of emptiness and emotional filth welcomes him; it hits him like a tornado raging through the depths of his soul.  He hurries to climb the first few stairs to his bedroom in slow motion, avoiding some stairs altogether due to their nature to creak.

“Blaine.”  Fuck.  “Blaine, is that you?  Get over here.”  Shit.  Fuck it all to Hell, dammit.  Blaine descends back to the first floor and peaks into his father's office, directly to the right of the front foyer.  He has no choice but to do as he's told.

“Father.”  He greets, mocking the stupid rich-white-folk rules and regulations he's had instilled in him since he could remember.  Christian Anderson does not, has never, will not ever fuck around.  He is abnormally tall for the rest of the family, Irish in descent, complete with a fading accent from twenty-seven years ago.  His green-as-leaves eyeballs pierce through in a burn with a flicker fashion.  A hard and unexpressive mouth and permanently tanned skin are met with the presence of the few freckles splattered across his nose.   His hair is the darkest of blacks with silver around the edges, pin straight, and always freshly cut into a short professional trim.  He is certainly in an obvious position of power, never holding back on the overall importance he exudes.  Blaine's father holds the number one spot of lawyers in Ohio with winning murder cases under his belt, and that makes sense when you are met with Christian Anderson's presence.  He's fucking scary, intimidating, overpowering.  He leaves the most evil serial killers shaking in their knees, nervous sputtering messes at the stand.

Blaine knows that everyone is innocent until theyre proven guilty, but the fact that Christian Anderson has defended hundreds of clearly guilty murderers makes Blaines skin crawl. 

“Cooper called.  Said he had to help you out down at the courthouse.  Why didn't you call me?”  His tone is accusing.

Blaine stares at him for a moment, working up the courage to speak.  He shrugs.  Fuck Cooper.

“Say something, faggot.”

Blaine breathes and makes eye contact.  “I… I…” He glares up at his father.  He's performing the universal sign with his hand for being gay, probably in an effort to get a reaction out of his son.  Blaine takes a breath, pushing the tears away from his eyes.  He will not cry.  This man does not deserve his tears, even the ones hes already cried. “I just didn't want to bother you.  I know you're busy and…”  You would have left me there to rot.

“Well now you're stuck on fucking probation.  That's something I could have gotten you out of.   If I wanted to.  Not that I would have, I would have kept you locked the fuck up to become one with the fucking soil.  And not only that, but everyone gets to know it now too, with that fucking GPS strapped to you.  What the hell were you thinking, young man?  Now I don't just have a faggot as a son, he steals too!”  Christian raises a hand.  Blaine flinches and pulls away from him as his fist makes contact with his cheek, his dad's class ring slicing it open as planned.  Blaine stumbles back and trips over one of the chairs facing the desk, grabbing onto whatever he can: a sterling silver paperweight as he falls to the ground.  The paperweight comes with him and he knocks his head on the hardwood maple floor.  Fuck.  He juggles the paperweight a bit before it disappears from his hand and is thrown right back to him, hitting his clavicle with the force of a major league baseball pitch aimed to strike.  Blaine is being kicked in the groin and in the ribs and all he can do is take it.  He curls as much into the fetal position as he can and waits for the beating to be over.  He doesn't cry.  He only waits, staring out and focusing on the nicks in the wood of the chair he just tripped over. 

"You worthless piece of shit, are you fucking listening to me?  I hope you rot in hell with a dick up your ass with that fucking monitor on your damn fucking leg, you dirty, disgusting faggot."  Blaine's dad then coughs up as much phlegm and saliva as one can fit into a mouth, and it lands right between Blaines eyes.   

Hes not listening; his ears go swimming in the depths of the nearest ocean a thousand miles away.  The parallels he lives in during these moments are typically unbearable, but never as awful as the reality.  Usually blurry by this time, his eyes focus on an uncharacteristically white glow with a thin light around everything as a border.  Its almost like a halo, like foreshadow hes been praying for since the very first punch in the rib all of those years ago when he came out to his parents.

Christian Anderson does not have any anger management issues.  He works to solve problems.  As the number one most popular and successful attorney in Ohio, his opinion is the most influential among the poor and stupid farmhands the state has to offer.  Hes expensive, but will sometimes take a case for the publicity, and this is how hes gotten to be famous by way of practicing law.  The only attorney from the state of Ohio to go to trial against the Supreme Court once and win, he can move mountains and part the Red Sea, according to the citizens of Lima, Ohio.  He's most known for getting a client, Jacob Destoff, off for murder, despite the bloody glove that matched his and his ex-wife's DNA.

His problems usually lie with the girlfriend who killed the boyfriend after she said no to sex, or the crazy teenager who went on a rampage at his high school.  His problems usually never follow him home, and now that hes in this predicament, he does something about it.  He has a problem at home, and it all stems from the fact that his son, Blaine, is gay.  Sure, hes always held his two boys up to the highest of standards and neither has met them with or without ease.  Cooper might as well be a fucking circus clown, gallivanting in a gay city out west, living paycheck to paycheck for the sake of "his art" and serving sushi and some shit called Shabu-Shabu or whatever the fuck on the side.  He should have been made Junior Partner by now, and making seven figures for 40 hours of work, but its not Cooper Christian hates.  Cooper has a girlfriend, who, although is not a 10, is still a woman.  

Blaine, however, is the lowest of all human forms; he is a despicable cocksucking little fucking whore.  He hates him for dishonoring the family name, with every fiber of his being.  Andersons are supposed to be strong, manly men that dominate the world and industry they're in:  Law.  Theres nothing more to say about his lame excuse for a son, he just simply hates the little bitch.  And he makes sure to show it every chance he gets.  Especially now that the faggot's been kicked out of school, Christian doesn't hold back on the bruising.

Blaine struggles up the stairs into his en-suite bathroom.  He cleans the blood off his face in one practiced and now extremely natural motion, and sticks a large piece of toilet paper to his cheek, as if he shaved a hole into the side of his face and nicked it just a bit.  He ensures hes generally okay, and that there are no bones visible, aching to be shown from beneath the level of skin like last time.  He lifts his shirt sheepishly to check his ribs, immediately winces, and knows at least two must be bruised.  His breathing is heavy, his breaths shallow.  He changes his tee shirt to one without stains of blood.  Inevitably, hell need to get more soon.  For good measure, he attempts to soak this one in warm water in his bathtub.  He'll deal with the details later.  Theyre all starting to mimic each other. 

Blaine bolts.  He's clutching his highlighted map from the Latina after pulling it out of his stupid folder.  He has to go, anywhere but here, as long as its within four miles.