“God dammit Santana I swear to all that is holy if you don’t turn off that music right now I will throw this bucket of acrylic paint on you, slam you into a canvas and call you a work in progress!” Kurt snapped. It was a typical Friday night, Kurt was trying to finish his latest painting; a bird being let free from a cage into a dark world of cruelty and despair. Quinn was reading a book while simultaneously eating a large carton of ramen, Mike was still at the studio teaching his class. Sadly painting a depressing but beautiful in deeper meaning master is a near impossible task to complete when one’s roommate is blasting the latest technoshit album from whatever artist is now hitting MTV’s top ten sellouts of the week.
“I can’t” Santana replied haughtily. Dancing again while speaking loudly over the offensive music. Kurt just wanted to break her radio, no one else in the house listened to anything but vinyl ever since the Jackson five became the Jackson one. The residents of 305 Joseph Blvd preferred the better kinds of music played, or as many of the chavs who beat them up at lest once a month would call it: “that punk shit you fuckups are listening to now a days”. Minor Threat, The New York Dolls, DOA, not to mention the amazing talents some of the Quebecois bands offered at the punk clubs they went to. But alas, Santana was blasting some tasteless song that Kurt would never care enough to learn the name of while he was working on his latest masterpiece, he even had globs of orange paint on his near flawless skin. This was going to be the painting, he knew it. A caged songbird being let free to see the cruelty of reality, the moment before it realizes how cruel the world is, when it’s still in a false sense of hope that freedom isn’t imprisonment. Kurt’s thoughts were interrupted when Santana finally spoke once more:
“I’m practicing my next dance routine” she explained, smiling and turning the music louder. Kurt was about to explode, he had a headache, he had had a horrible day at the punk shop and he wasn’t scared of putting murder of the antichrist on his criminal record at the moment if the bitch didn’t just shut it up. He loved Santana, but right now she was irking him more than she had in months. So he hit a low blow,
“Yeah San? I don’t see a stripper pole and you’re barely naked right now I don’t see how that’s practicing” He smiled sweetly, Santana rolled her eyes. Still dancing as she replied,
“One day they’ll see I’m more than just a girl with a pretty body and Jay will let me actually dance for them, I have to practice for that day-“ Was Santana high? Probably, she was never this happy and she never listened to MTV if she had a choice, she preferred Patty Smith. Santana may or may not have a problem with certain uppers that we don’t talk about unless she doesn’t pay the bills, which hasn’t happened yet.
Suddenly Quinn spoke up, using her usual monotone voice that just screamed I don’t care (sometimes laced with a cry of ‘but I do care, I care too much’). She spoke slowly if Santana was a mental patient rather than her roommate.
“Its never gonna happen Satan you’re just a piece of meat to those guys and if you keep pestering your boss he’ll just find another pretty girl willing to get naked for drug money” Quinn explained, looking up from her book and setting her ramen on the floor. Quinn Fabray wasn’t mean, she was realistic. The world made her realize that at a young age and she made sure that no one made the same mistake of being an idealistic fool like her. It often made her seem cold or pessimistic, sometimes just outright mean but it was how she worked- she told the truth, paid her share of the bills and lived her life that’s it that’s all.
Santana however was not impressed with Quinn’s anti-idealism towards her blooming career, she was about to pounce when they heard a loud crash come in through Kurt’s room where the fire escape was. When they entered Kurt’s room they saw something that would change their little family forever.
A boy- about sixteen maybe? Was on the floor holding his stomach in pain, groaning. He didn’t look like an intruder, although in Montr�al you can never be sure- a twelve year old kid once pulled a knife on Kurt stealing his last 20 bucks. That was foolish on his part considering he’s lived here all his life and has pulled that same stunt at least twice when he was a teen. This boy however didn’t look like the punk rock kind seen on the streets of the plateau, he didn’t have any piercings like Kurt (who had industrial, hips and maybe another piercing but that one was mostly a rumor that Kurt has never confirmed or denied even if you ever asked his past fucks they wouldn’t tell you). His clothing looked expensive albeit soaking wet and slightly blood stained. Even his hair looked natural (seriously who had natural hair in these days? Kurt had splashes of red and purple, Quinn had pink hair, Mike had mostly blue hair, hell even Santana had highlights). They kind of just circled and stared at him for a while until he groaned again and Kurt went to his side.
“Hey kid, you alright?” Kurt asked softly, the kid looked like he’d just gotten out of a sticky situation, maybe a runaway? Abusive relationship? Kurt had had enough of those to know that the last thing this nameless boy needs is someone bombarding him with questions.
“I’m fine, just please-please don’t call my parents” The kid groaned again and passed out.
And that’s how Blaine Anderson became the new kid. It wasn’t like they could throw him out in the cold while bleeding and in pain. Plus the kid was nice, he slept on the floor until Kurt forced him to share his bed (or big ass futon that covered most of the floor of his room). He never was a bother, he always helped with cleaning and cooking. At first they’d agreed to only keep him there until he was healthy again, but then he got a job and they really did need the extra money.
So they put up another wall divider (the apartment was mainly just one big room since Kurt was there first he got the only bedroom) and hauled a futon off the street the second they saw one. Thankfully mid spring the students are moving out and putting most of their sit on the curbs so they don’t have to haul it home. Mid spring was like boxing week and Christmas if you were a punk in the 80s free furniture, books, clothing, anything heavy sometimes booze even.
“You sure that’s sanitary?” Blaine questioned when he first saw Kurt and Mike pick the black futon up.
“You sure you want a bed rich boy?” Santana quipped, Blaine shrugged his shoulders and helped them bring it up the three flights of stairs.
They never found out exactly how Blaine ended up at their little shitstack of an apartment, when asked Blaine just mumbled something about his dad and running away. They never pushed it but they could guess the rest.
Blaine quickly became the ‘baby’ of the group, everyone doted upon him, even Quinn apparently had some maternal instinct in her for the boy. Slowly but surely they found out about the mystery that was Blaine Anderson. They found out that he was gay, played guitar and piano (when Kurt found that out he scoped the streets and pawnshops until he found Blaine a semi usable acoustic guitar, the look on Blaine’s face when Kurt gave it to him was worth the effort). They learned he liked to sing. A lot.
He kept it quiet but sometimes someone would come home earlier than planned and they’d hear Blaine singing ‘Rock with You’ or ‘Another One Bites the Dust’ while dancing around the apartment goofily. Whenever Kurt caught him he’d hide for as long as possible so he could see the real Blaine. Even if he preferred the Sex Pistols, Dead Kennedies or Minor Threat he couldn’t bring himself to judge Blaine when he seemed so happy. Blaine always looked happy but it never seemed real unless he was alone. Around others even his roommates he was always cautious, careful, eager to please. He never even admitted to liking top forty music once he found all the vinyl records they owned and played nonstop every day.
Blaine never complained about the lifestyle they had. He even let Kurt put a couple dark purple streaks in his hair. Kurt worked as a part time artist but since that didn’t pay shit for bills he also worked at a piercing, sex and punk shop. After working there for about a year the owner decided he could probably pass for a professional piercer, they never got health inspectors anyways only the lowly came in here, as long as no one got an incurable disease they were fine and as long as Kurt never fucked up (which he didn’t) he had a pretty ok salary for a ‘high school drop out with no future’. One time Kurt brought Blaine a dildo home from work and he screamed like it was the black plague then politely said “No thank you”. Kurt laughed and tossed it to him telling him to keep it, god know that kid isn’t getting any for some reason. It wasn’t like he was unattractive, he was built nice, had cute curls, was a definite sweetheart hell, he might even be a virgin still.
Blaine quickly became part of the their little family. He ate with them, laughed with them and before he knew it he was another regular punk kid in an unforgiving city, but he was a punk kid in an unforgiving city with friends. Friends that would kill (or at least maim) for him. He had more than some good friends, he had a family. A family that didn’t beat him for being gay or call him names. A family that wouldn’t e yell at him for not getting the best grade or not making the winning goal. They only cared that Blaine was Blaine and that he was happy.
For once Blaine Anderson could truly say that he had a home.