By Friday – almost a full week later – Blaine’s forgotten about the invisible figure, for the most part. He’s had assessments, and exams, and one particular French pop quiz where he’d accidentally interpreted retard as idiot (it actually means late – who knew?) and Kurt had turned around in his seat and smile-giggled at him like nobody’s business.

“Salut, beau,” Kurt says, after class, skipping up behind him, falling into a walk to match Blaine’s pace. “Ca va?”

“Fatigue.” Blaine says, without a second thought.

Kurt laughs out loud at that, feet stumbling for a quick-second before rematching Blaine’s. “Is that the only word you know?”

Blaine grins, shakes his head. “Non.”

“Ooh, fan-cy.” Kurt says, eyes half-teasing. “Go on, then, what else do you know?”

Blaine pauses. “Je sais que tu pues.”

There’s a moment of awkward silence where Blaine wonders whether or not he’s crossed a line before Kurt lets out a loud half-shriek, half-choke, stops mid-step and curls over towards the ground as his shoulders shake in laughter, and Blaine can help but snort a little at himself.

“You – you just – oh my god, Blaine!” Kurt says, in the in-between of his laugher, managing to stand up straight after about a minute, and Blaine takes Kurt’s hand in his and resumes their walking.

After a moment, Kurt says, “We didn’t ever learn that in class, Blaine.”

“I know.”

“So,” Kurt drawls, still smile-teasing, “you specifically looked up how to tell me that I stink in order to insult me?”

“Mhmm.”

Kurt just shakes his head, lips pressed in a firm line. “Any other soul-burning witty remarks, good sir?”

Blaine’s face freezes for a moment, squeezes Kurt’s hand tighter.

“Je sais…je t’aime.”

Kurt mock-gasps.

“Je t’aime beaucoup.”

Kurt smiles at him. “Je t’adore.”

“Moi aussi.”

Kurt grins, corner-dimples widening, and says, “You’re going to nail this test, baby.”

They reach the end of the corridor,  and Blaine’s almost in his classroom for last period before Kurt does that adorable run-skip-hopping thing back to him, motioning for Blaine to come forward, so he does, and Kurt asks, “are you still free on Sunday?” and Blaine freezes.

“Sunday?” He half-repeats, half-asks.

“Yes, Sunday,” Kurt nods, eyeing him cautiously. “For dinner, and meeting my father. And maybe watching Friends.”

“Oh!” Blaine says, suddenly, like he’s only just remembered, and hasn’t been stressing about it all week. “Yeah, yeah. Sunday is still cool.” His voice cracks upward on the cool, and he tries to cover it with a cough into his hand. “The coolest.”

“Okay.” Kurt grins. “I’ll see you Sunday, then.”

“You will. On Sunday. The cool day.”

“Okay, Blaine.”

“Yeah, Sunday.  Dinner. Yeah.”

“Go to Math, Blaine.” Kurt pokes his tongue out, turning on his heel to walk back up the corridor.

“I love you!” Blaine calls out, and without missing a beat, Kurt turns his head over his shoulder and calls out, “I know that you stink!”

*

“Hello, Mr Hummel. I’m delighted to – fuck, fuck, no.”

You’ve really got to stop talking aloud to your reflection, Blaine.

Blaine ignores the voice, repositions himself in front of his mirror, smiling as best he can at himself. “I’m Blaine, it’s nice to meet you.”

That’s good.

Blaine’s smile grows wider.

Yeah, yeah. It is.

But you need a different shirt.

Blaine looks down at his outfit – a We Will Rock You t-shirt, jeans, sneakers, the latest fashion – and frowns slightly. Looks back at his reflection.

He doesn’t look like a moral-threatening, virtue-stealing, no-good punk kid, right? Right?

Right.

Right.

Blaine sighs, smooths over his hair one last time, grabs his coat and keys and heads out the door.

*

Kurt answers the door, eyes and smile alight, and Blaine lets himself breathe for a moment.

“Hey,” Blaine says, almost smoothing over his hair again before stopping himself. Kurt steps back, leaving a space wide enough to Blaine to walk through, and so Blaine does.

“How are you?” Kurt asks, timid-soft, obviously trying to gauge the atmosphere.

Blaine gulps. “Spectacular.”

“Oh, come on,” Kurt half-chuckles, “you’ll be fine, he’s really nice-”

“-Kurt?” The voice comes from down the hall, and Blaine takes an instinctive breath.

“Come on,” Kurt repeats, hiss-whisper, gesturing down the hallway, and Blaine forces himself to follow.

They reach the kitchen, Blaine peering meerkat-eyed around the place as Kurt strides forward, wordlessly hands him a large, empty plate and points through at what must be the living room.

Blaine shrugs to himself, manoeuvrers through the half-open door. The room is set out plainly enough; TV front and centre, two loveseats along two separate walls, and a small coffee table in front of the TV, piled with four boxes of pizza.

Blaine can’t help but to smile at that

*

A good fifteen minutes later, Blaine is just starting to settle into the night; he’s made a few good jokes, complimented the meal, not thrown up on anyone’s shoes. It’s going well, and a comfortable, slight-awkward silence has overtaken the room.

“So, Blaine,” Burt says, coughs.

Blaine’s heart stops. “Yes?”

Burt’s standing up, moving towards the kitchen and beckoning to Blaine. “Let’s get this over with, yeah?”

“Dad,” Kurt says, warning-tense.

“It’s okay, Kurt,” Blaine says, moving to get up, following Burt. “I’ll be back soon, promise.”

Kurt slouches back into the couch as the pair leaves the room.

Well, at least he’s being honest.

*

Blaine and Burt have been sitting on the outside patio for a solid five minutes before Burt starts.

“I don’t want to come across like an asshole, but I gotta ask about your intentions with my son.”

Blaine hisses out a breath through his teeth, presses his lips together. “I…don’t really have any, to be honest,” he answers, eyes glued to the pavement.

Burt nods slowly. “It’s just that – well, after Sebastian – he’s been kind of vulnerable, and I can’t really help him if I don’t know what’s going on,” he says, carefully pacing his words. “I’m sorry if I offend you, kid, but I…I can’t trust you. Not yet.”

Blaine’s heart drops, but he manages to hold his face somewhat respectively. Nods.

“Hey, kid, look at me.”

Blaine makes his head raise, almost-instinctively clenches his teeth at the guilty look on Burt’s face. “Yes, sir?”

“Nu-uh, I don’t want any of that sir crap,” Burt says, voice becoming slightly harsher. “You call me Burt, okay?”

Blaine nods, slow and cautious, like Burt’s going to chop his head off if he gets too enthusiastic.

“Blaine, you’ve got to see that I’m only trying to protect Kurt, right?”

“Yeah, I can,” Blaine says, voice almost-wavering. “I can see that.”

He can almost feel the sadness in the air around him.

“I have his best interests at heart.”

Blaine nods, once.

“And I don’t want him to get hurt again,” Burt continues, “which is why I don’t think a relationship is a good idea right now.”

Blaine goes numb.

“Oh.”

Burt nods, seeming regretful, but not regretful enough to take back what he’s said. “You seem like a great guy, Blaine, but Kurt is first priority.”

Blaine shuts his eyes and tries to press out the world, and then he opens them, and Burt is gone.

A moment passes, and then within three seconds the back door is open, Blaine walking through the kitchen with his heart exploding into needles and the biggest lump in the world in his throat and eyes damming up, he leans into the living room, tries not to look at Kurt, croakily thanks everyone for the lovely night and leaves as quickly as he can, out the door and cold air and breathe breathe breathe-

God, he can feel himself bleeding, seeping out like blood and warm air and water through damp wood, bits and pieces of his misery drifting up and out into the night.

He’s through his own door too-quick, and then it’s locked and he’s walking too-slow to his room and slumping face-first into his bed and just sobbing, before his phone beeps.

Are you okay?

It’s from Kurt – of course it’s from Kurt.

Kurt Hummel; head Cheerio, kind soul to all, gay rights supporter and owner of Blaine’s heart.