TUESDAY - PART I

Blaine had a tough time getting to sleep, so when he rolled out of bed that morning, he looked and felt like a mess. Cooper was already gone for the day, so Blaine took his time in the shower. He stood under the showerhead and let the hot water pound on his back like he was being flailed. The pain felt good as he thought about what his brother had said to him the night before.

He was acting. He knew he was acting, but it had never bothered him before. He was so used to assuming a serious guise and commanding the stage. But, as much as he was pretending to be someone else on the outside while in performance-mode, every song he played was an extension of himself. He felt the music throughout his body, as if the melody was the blood coursing through his veins. Each note was a syllable and strung together, they created a story he needed to share. Only he knew the words the music made, but he hoped the audience would understand their overall meaning.

It was confusing because Blaine never felt more like himself on the inside than when he was playing, but he didn’t feel like himself on the outside. He was only a couple years into his career, but that was enough for him to have already established himself as a brand. The contacts, the slicked back hair, the well-tailored but extremely conservative tux were as much a part of Devon Anderson’s performance as the fancy upright he sat behind while he played. Devon Anderson was the person people paid money to see. Devon Anderson was the calm, cool, collected young man who had impeccable high school transcripts, a well-rounded college experience and unparalleled piano skills that started him on his path to becoming a worldwide phenomenon.

Devon Anderson made it through high school unscathed because Blaine Anderson could not.

Blaine’s talent for piano was exploited by his grade schools ever since his first grade music teacher bragged to the principal that her student was better than any of the high school pianists featured at the yearly May Festival. He was asked to play at a PTA meeting, and later at a school assembly. Soon Blaine’s parents were bombarded with phone calls asking him to play at various school functions and fundraisers. The Andersons never pressured Blaine to play at any of the events but watched with pride when their youngest son would walk out onto the stage in front of hundreds of their community members and play.

Over the years, Blaine kept performing for different school events when asked. He loved to play and it gave him a thrill to share his love of music with others. As he got older, his peers became annoyed that their parents were fussing over him and how well he played. He would often get shoved in the hallway during the week of any of his performances. Posters that were hung with his face on them were quickly vandalized with the word “faggot” scrawled across his face and his perfect teeth blacked out with Sharpies.

Blaine was always the tiniest boy in his class and was a year younger than everyone else, having started kindergarten right after he turned four. His tiny stature and big talent became more of a problem the older he got. In eighth grade, Blaine was warming up on a piano in the band room before he was to play in the auditorium that night. Head down, watching his own fingers move across the keys, Blaine didn’t hear a few members of the baseball team come into the room after their practice.

Before he knew it, Blaine was knocked backward off of the piano bench. In the brief moments before his head hit the ground, he thought how upset his mom was going to be that his tux was going to be dirty. His head bounced off the floor and he cried out in pain as he looked up to find several kids from his grade staring down at him. A hand reached down and pulled his glasses off his face. Though he could no longer see their sneers, Blaine heard them laugh at the sound of his glasses being broken in half.

“You guys –” Blaine started before a hand was clamped over his mouth. His heart began to race as he squirmed to reach his hands up to free himself. Both Blaine’s arms were grabbed as were his legs before he had a chance to kick anyone.

“You think you’re better than us, Anderson?” one of the bullies asked as the others muttered their annoyances under their breaths. “Let’s see if you can play your gay little piano without any fingers.” The kids who were holding his arms pulled them away from his body. Blaine felt someone take his right hand and peel his fingers out of the fist he had formed. He tried to bite the hand that was clamped over his mouth, but there was too much pressure. He couldn’t scream and he was having trouble breathing because he was panicking.

A cleat stomped down onto Blaine’s outstretched hand and a sickly crunching sound made its way to his ears before he passed out. Blaine woke up at the hospital several hours later to the sound of his mom crying in a chair next to his bed. Woozy from the pain killers in the IV hooked up to his arm, Blaine sluggishly looked down and saw both his hands were wrapped in thick gauze and that it hurt to breathe. Later a doctor would tell him that several fingers on each hand were broken and there was extensive damage to his right palm. The bruises all over his chest and sides were from being kicked by some of the kids from the baseball team. He didn’t care if they got suspended or not, he just wanted to know if he would ever play again.

He would – but it took a lot of physical therapy and more patience than he thought he had.

The summer before his freshman year of high school, Blaine spent as much time as he could getting his hands back in working order. Frustrated by his slow progress, Blaine was finally encouraged when his physical therapist said that playing guitar, in addition to playing the piano, would help Blaine’s dexterity return. The following day, Blaine woke up to find a brand new acoustic guitar resting on his desk chair. He winced slightly as he grabbed his new instrument by its neck and ran downstairs to thank his parents. The look of utter glee fell from his face as he saw his dad squeeze his mom’s shoulder before both parents turned to him with apologetic looks on their faces. The guitar was a gift to help his hands heal, but also was a way for them to try and lessen the blow that he was being pulled from public school and put into private school for his high school career. Dalton Academy for Boys, they said, would be the safest environment to continue to hone his piano skills while getting the best education in the state. They boasted a zero-tolerance harassment policy that would prevent Blaine from being the victim of any more hate crimes or violent outbursts from his peers.

On his first day of high school, Blaine took a deep breath as he walked toward the large front doors, wearing his Dalton blazer, blue and red striped tie and boring gray uniform pants. Before reaching for the handle, he brought both his fully healed hands to his head and ran them over the hardened gel that held down his naturally curly hair. He went to adjust his glasses, but his finger met the bridge of his nose as he remembered for the umpteenth time that morning that he was wearing contacts because even at a safe school, it was best to make himself as small a target as possible. He was starting fresh and it was time to forget all the bullying at his old school and build new relationships with his private school classmates. When he finally found the courage to pull the door open, he was surprised to see another hand beat him to the punch. As Blaine turned to look at whoever opened the door, he was met with a wide smile from another boy. “Hey man, don’t look so nervous. Welcome to Dalton! I’m Nick.”

Blaine smiled widely at the other boy and said in a practiced voice. “I’m Devon.”

At Dalton, Devon Anderson quickly became the name whispered on everyone’s lips. The faculty got wind that this was the same piano prodigy that the Westerville Public School System had been bragging about for years. The students who didn’t know Devon heard rumors that he had gotten kicked out of public school for getting into a fight because someone called him gay. Devon quickly made friends with Nick and was invited to join the school’s a cappella group, the Warblers, when it was found that in addition to playing piano and guitar, he could sing well too. The Warblers were a tight-knit family and soon Devon befriended the other guys in the group well enough for them to call him Blaine and get to know the real him outside of school. They were shocked the first time they went over to his house on the weekend for a Rock Band marathon and saw him in glasses, scruff and no hair gel. But, after getting the true story out of him about how he had gotten beaten up for just being himself, they understood why he looked differently at school and told him they would love him whether he was Superman or Clark Kent.

Four years at Dalton flew by. Blaine accompanied the Warblers to several state and national show choir competitions in between his own piano recitals and showcases. When the time came for him and his friends to think about life after high school, Blaine was told he could skip the college route if he wanted and just be a professional musician. Knowing a college education would be better in the long run; Blaine went to a small liberal arts college and got an English degree with a minor in music performance. Once again he was Blaine Anderson during the school day to his closest friends, but Devon Anderson any time else, and especially when he had to perform. It became a routine that was familiar – keeping his personal and professional life separate. He didn’t care what people called him while he was playing; he just wanted to express himself through his music.

Now here he was, his first year out of college and seemingly stuck being Devon Anderson to everyone except his family and the Warblers he still kept in touch with. Sometimes it was exhausting, being this dapper guy that everyone expected him to be.

…

Looking at his watch, Blaine knew had some time to kill before Cooper was done for the day. It was another beautiful afternoon, so he decided to take his guitar back to the park and play some more.

The day before, after watching the boy who almost choked run off into the distance, Blaine settled himself under the tree by the picnic table and played quietly. After awhile, people began dropping dollar bills in his case. The act surprised him, as he hadn’t been playing for the purpose of getting money; he just wanted to play but didn’t feel comfortable using a practice room at a university he didn’t attend.

By time he was ready to head back to Cooper’s apartment to be there before his brother got home, Blaine had amassed around $40. It would have been easy to just pocket the cash, but Blaine was doing more than fine financially, having received some of the profits from his first CD as well as the trust fund he had full access to ever since he turned 18 a few years prior. So, Blaine packed up his guitar and put the money in his front pocket while he walked around town, looking for a good cause to donate to.

A few minutes into his stroll, Blaine came across a homeless shelter, which sadly didn’t surprise him because he was in the heart of downtown Pittsburgh. Without hesitation, Blaine walked through the door of the shelter and straight up to the front desk. The tired looking woman behind the counter looked up and almost rolled her eyes at the eager young man before her. Before she forced herself to launch into her rehearsed monologue about the shelter, Blaine interrupted and said he wanted to donate some money. She looked confused, seeing as they didn’t usually get people in their early twenties waltzing into the place and saying they wanted to give, but handed him an envelope anyway.

Blaine took the money and place it in the envelope, sealed it and quickly scribbled a note on the back of it before handing it to the woman at the desk. Before she could say anything, he turned on his heals and gave a quick look down the hallway before he left. Though he didn’t spend a lot of time lingering, he did see a few open doors down a hallway. He heard children playing tag and the sound of a horrendously out of tune piano being plunked on somewhere toward the end of the hall. He pursed his lips and made a mental note to come back the next day to see if there was anything else he could do in the short amount of time he was in town visiting his brother.

So, on Tuesday, Blaine returned to his tree by the picnic table from the day before. This time he propped open his case and angled it out, should more people want give money as he played. He was still just messing around and playing whatever songs he liked, but he knew that if people wanted to give, then he would be giving it to the shelter along with his own donation. Blaine felt his checkbook in his back pocket and smiled to himself that he would be able to do some good with his earnings that day.

Blaine was so into his music and enjoying playing outside on such a lovely spring day that he lost track of time. A couple hours passed and more and more dollars were dropped into his case. He smiled with each donation, glad to be entertaining people and grateful he would have more money for the shelter. When a bell chimed somewhere across campus and his stomach began to growl, Blaine decided he should probably pack it in and go donate the money before grabbing a snack and heading back to his brother’s apartment so they could go out to dinner later.

Not caring about getting his jeans dirty, Blaine sat on the ground to put his guitar away and sort through the money. While he was counting out a neat stack of bills, he heard someone say, “Oh my god, it’s you!”

He knew he looked disheveled with his rumpled sweater, messy hair and glasses. He had just played for two hours and even though there was a cool breeze, performing always made him a bit sweaty. Blaine didn’t know anyone on campus, let alone anyone who would recognize him because the hot mess he was at the moment did not resemble the Devon Anderson who’s face graced the posters that had been hung across campus.

Eyebrows furrowed as Blaine stopped counting money and craned his head to look up toward the source of that voice. “Excuse me?” Blaine’s question hung in the air as he found himself staring up at the boy who had choked and then ran off yesterday. His mouth dropped open at the beauty of the other boy, whose blue eyes were beaming brightly above a close-mouthed grin. “You’re…” he started. “Were you late for class?” Blaine immediately wanted to kick himself. Of all the questions or comments he could have said, he just asked this beautiful stranger if he was late for class the day before, as if he weren’t creepy enough just sitting on the ground gaping at him. The beautiful boy looked puzzled for a minute until Blaine made himself clearer. “Yesterday,” he said, sheepishly. “You ran off. And I didn’t…”

“Oh,” the beautiful boy said, cheeks flushing pink in embarrassment at the recollection of the day before and that this other man remembered him. “Yeah, I was late to class, but it was okay. I’m so sorry I ran off like that before properly thanking you or even getting your name. I’m Kurt, by the way,” he said as he reached a hand down toward where Blaine was sitting. “Not that that matters.” Kurt chuckled nervously as Blaine took the offered hand and shook it slowly.

“I’m Blaine,” the curly haired man said confidently as he held onto Kurt’s hand just a little too long. He normally introduced himself as Devon, but for some reason felt super comfortable around this near-stranger. “And of course it matters.”

Kurt flashed a grateful smile at Blaine.  “I’m so glad I ran into you again because I wanted to thank you, obviously, for saving my life,” Kurt rambled as Blaine stood up as gracefully as one can after sitting on the ground for awhile. “Can I buy you a coffee or something? It’s seriously the least I can do after what you did for me.”

It was Blaine’s turn to chuckle as he wiped the dirt off his pants. “I didn’t do anything but give you some water. Really, it was nothing.”

“Blaine, please,” Kurt interrupted firmly, but softly. Blaine looked up mid-brush from a patch of dirt near his knee and saw the want in Kurt’s eyes to do this for him. In an instant he knew the other boy was not going to give up, regardless of what he said so he gave a small smile and nodded that he accepted Kurt’s offer. “Thank you,” Kurt said, pleased he got his way. He looked down at his watch and knew he didn’t really have anywhere to be for a while longer. “Are you free now, or were you on your way somewhere before I rudely interrupted?”

It was Blaine’s turn to look at his own watch. He had an hour or so before he had to head back to Cooper’s apartment and he was planning on getting a snack anyway. “I have some time,” he said as he bent over to collect the stack of money he had set on his guitar case. Blaine folded the wad of cash and Kurt watched as he slid it into the front pocket of his still dirty, but form fitting in all the right places, jeans. He slung the guitar case on his back as if it was a shield and he was headed toward the battlefield.

Kurt smiled and with a small bow, he motioned his arm outward in a silent “right this way, good sir” motion. Blaine smiled as he fell in step with Kurt, the two of them walking toward the edge of the park.

They walked in silence though both boys were actually very eager to know more about the other – they just didn’t know where to start.

When they happened upon the homeless shelter from the day before, Blaine stopped without warning, causing Kurt to walk several steps ahead before he realized the other man was no longer beside him. Confused, Kurt turned around, “You okay?”

Blaine nodded and then looked up at the shelter’s sign before looking back at Kurt. “Yeah, I just… I kinda need to stop in here for a second. I’ll be quick, I promise.”

Before Kurt had a chance to respond, Blaine flung the front door open and walked into the building. He could see Blaine inside at the front desk, but could not make out what he or the woman he was speaking with was saying. Not knowing what to do, Kurt began looking around at where they were. He was whistling to himself and thinking about how attractive the other man was when the name of the location caught the corner of his eye.

Homeless shelter.

Kurt’s eyes widened. He didn’t know what to think except that there was a very real possibility that the man he was taking for coffee was homeless. Quickly thinking back to their encounter the day before, Kurt was too busy coughing and thinking that the other man was attractive to really pay attention to anything else. And then even that day – Kurt came across the other man packing up his guitar and counting a stack of money. Blaine’s jeans were filthy and he had a sizeable stack of cash. He must have been playing his guitar for money. Suddenly Kurt felt horrible for taking the other man’s water bottle the day before. Surely his offer to buy him a cup of coffee was not enough for what this poor guy was going through.

The college freshman only snapped out of his thoughts when he heard the door to the shelter open and saw Blaine walking out with a smile on his face. Kurt look mortified, but somehow managed to nod when Blaine asked, “You ready?”

Blaine was still beaming when they walked into the coffee shop and walked up to the counter with Kurt. The barista noticed the curly-haired man’s pleasant mood and assumed he was happy because he was with Kurt, one of her regular customers. “Hey Kurt,” she said, with a knowing smirk. “You want your usual?”

“What? Oh…” Kurt looked from the barista to Blaine, then back to the barista. “Yeah. Uh, I mean, yes please. And he,” he looked back at Blaine who was busy staring up at the menu written in chalk above the row of coffee-making machines, “he can have whatever he wants. I’m paying for him. He’s - I’m – it’s…” Kurt was rambling again and the barista chuckled, thinking that Kurt was just nervous because he was smitten with this new guy with the guitar. Kurt came to the coffee shop a few times a week but never brought anyone with him. The barista figured he was gay and was pleased to see that he bagged himself a hottie. She had to be sure, though.

“And what can I get for you, sir?” The barista looked at Blaine and said “sir” as sultry as she could, causing Kurt’s eyebrows to shoot up. She leaned over the counter toward Blaine and squeezed her elbows in so her cleavage heaved a little extra.

Blaine looked down from the menu and straight into the barista’s eyes without giving her breasts even one tiny peak. With a smile, he said, “I’ll have a Medium Drip, please.” He looked over at Kurt, “Hey you want to split some biscotti? I’ll pay – ”

“No, it’s on me, seriously. Get the biscotti. You want a sandwich or something too?” Kurt quickly looked away from Blaine and started eyeballing the display in front of them. “These don’t look that fresh, but I bet they have more in the back.”

Blaine leaned over the counter toward the barista and whispered, “Just the biscotti, please. Thank you.”

Waiting an extra second before she stood back up, just to make sure this new guy wasn’t into her or her chest, the barista righted herself and said, “You got it, hon.” She punched some buttons into the cash register. “That’ll be $9.58, Kurt.”

Kurt reached into his satchel and yanked out his wallet. He fished out a ten-dollar bill and a couple ones and thrust them at the barista. “Here. Keep the change.”

They stood in silence as they waited patiently for their drinks and the biscotti. Soon they found themselves on their way to a table in the corner. They put their stuff down and then Blaine excused himself and jogged over to the counter to grab some napkins and a couple packets of sugar. After a moment’s hesitation, he grabbed a jar of cinnamon too before heading back to the table.

As he sat, Blaine smiled at Kurt. “Thank you for the coffee,” he said as he took the lid off his cup and poured in some sugar and cinnamon. “And the biscotti… you really didn’t have to do that, I would have gladly paid for it. Please, have some,” he scooted the plate toward Kurt before taking a piece for himself. He dunked the treat into his coffee and then let it drip back into his cup before he brought it up to his mouth and took a bite.

Kurt shook his head and scooted the plate back in Blaine’s direction. “Oh, god, no, please. You need this more than I do.” Blaine was busy chewing so he couldn’t ask what Kurt meant by that, but he did look at him with a confused look. Kurt leaned over and whispered softly, “Because you’re… you know… homeless.”

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