We stop for dinner at a small diner just over Ohio state lines. Kurt orders something overly healthy again, and I go for a meat lovers’ special. He looks at the huge pile of meat on my plate in near- disgust and I tease him about his addiction to fruits and vegetables. When I get back to our table after a small bathroom break, I pretend not to notice that my plate is missing pieces of meat. I do notice, though. I love steak. And apparently, so does Kurt.

__________________________________________________________

We’re well past the exit we should have taken when I realise we didn’t take it. I know the way back to the Pack by heart, and this isn’t it. I turn to Kurt in confusion.

“Er, Kurt? This isn’t the way back to Westerville.”

He glances at me just a little too calmly. “I know it’s not.”

For about half a second, I panic. Holy mother of fuck, this isn’t a retrieval mission. This is just some Rogue creep wolf- napping the son of one of the most important Alpha’s in the country. I can’t be going through this, I’ve got a very sweet boyfriend, a nice apartment and I’m about to graduate. I’m too young to die. Then, Kurt continues speaking and I stop panicking.

“We’re not expected there till morning. You know how Wes is with planning.”

I nod, my breathing returning back to normal. I do know how Wes plans things. He always has to take every single doom scenario in mind while planning. I remember when the Warblers – the acapella Dalton show choir- made it to Regionals in my sophomore year and he demanded we leave at four in the morning so we could be there in time. The venue had only been an hour away from the school. We never trusted Wes with scheduling our trips again.

“So what doom scenario did he pencil in this time?”, I ask, my attention fully on him now. He snorts.

“Five truck pile- up on the interstate,” he says, and I can clearly see a glint of humour in his eyes.

I grin. Good old Wes. Then, out of curiosity, I ask: “So, if we’re not heading to Westerville, where exactly are we going then?”

He glances at me from the corner of his eyes. “My house.”

__________________________________________________________

By ‘my’ house, Kurt apparently meant ‘the house my family lives in’, I realise as we pull into the driveway. Even though it’s nearly midnight, the door to the house is opened by a man while we’re still getting our stuff out of the trunk. And wow, so not the man I had been picturing as Kurt’s father. The man in the doorway is broad- shouldered, balding but trying to hide it with a cap and dressed in flannel and faded jeans. Somehow, when I pictured what Kurt’s parents might have looked like, this picture had not entered my mind.

I busy myself with getting my bag (and several of Kurt’s- how long is he planning on staying for anyways?) out of the trunk while Kurt is being greeted by his father. Well, greeted…busy being caught in an enormous lift- you- from- the- ground- and- twirl- you- around bear hug. Something in my chest suddenly stings a little, but I ignore it and go for the last bag.

I notice the weird shape of it and that it’s a lot larger than the last few bags, but figure Kurt probably hurried to pack and just threw so clothes in, no matter how out of character it may seem. I lift the bag up from the trunk, but find that I have to immediately set it down on the ground again. It’s a hell of a lot heavier than it seem to be. I mutter a curse, and Kurt looks at me from where he’s finally being set down by his dad.

“Blaine!”, he says, startled. “I should have warned you. Sorry! Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I answer. “What’ve you got in there? Bricks?”
Kurt blushes a bit and I can feel my eyes going wide. “Please tell me you don’t actually have bricks in there.”

The man who I assume to be Kurt’s father laughs heartily and claps me on the shoulder. I startle a bit from the unexpected strength behind it. He says: “No, but it’s pretty damn close. What you just so gracelessly set down is a small car engine. Been looking for one of those for years. Kurt found one at a garage sale and brought it down for me.”

I look at Kurt for a moment – cause where on earth did he manage to find a garage sale in downtown New York?-but the man takes my attention away by introducing himself.

“The name’s Burt, kid. Burt Hummel,” he says and I struggle to reign in a disbelieving snort. I mean, Burt and Kurt? Come on. Next he’ll be telling me he’s got a brother named Furt or something.

“Blaine Anderson,” I reply, shaking his hand. His grip is tight, and I’m getting the distinctive feeling like he’s trying to measure me up a bit. Before I can examine it any further, the hand is gone and I’m left to pick up my bag from the floor while Burt picks up some of Kurt’s.

Then Kurt goes for one of his and, surprisingly, the bag with the engine in it. I try not to look too envious as he easily lifts it from the ground and struts into the house.

And, really, I shouldn’t be envious. I know that if he had been born a wolf, like me, he would’ve had a bit more trouble lifting the bag as well. Normal werewolves (and I use the term ‘normal’ loosely, since many would claim being a supernatural creature is anything but) are stronger than regular people from the moment they’re born. They always have a little extra strength and use it to their advantage while still trying not to be noticed by their peers at school or local authorities.

Bitten wolves on the other hand have never had that strength. Once they’re bitten and actually survive the poison and the hallucinations, the strength kicks in. Because they never had that amount of strength however, the body tries to compensate by going into overdrive; they suddenly get all the strength they’ve missed out on by being a regular human for most of their lives. This eventually evens out to the strength levels of a normal werewolf, but for the first few years after the Bite, they’re stronger. I’m guessing Kurt has about two years of near super- strength left before he’ll be just as strong as the rest of us.

I’m brought out of my thoughts by Kurt suddenly appearing in the doorway and calling my name.

“Blaine! You can come in, you know. My family won’t bite.”

He laughs at his own lame little joke and disappears inside again. I follow, flushing a bit at having been caught out staring into space again. Rick keeps telling me it’s amusing, but I’d rather not look like a total loony all the time. I close the door behind me and head in the direction of where I can hear Kurt talk. And promptly collide with a giant.

__________________________________________________________

The giant, it turns out, is Kurt’s brother Finn. When I started looking for any kind of family resemblance and couldn’t find one, Kurt quickly explained it’s because they’re really stepbrothers, but they consider themselves regular brothers cause they bicker just like them.

At the moment, we’re all gathered in the spacious kitchen, being served extremely yummy pancakes by Kurt, even though it’s nearly midnight and we really shouldn’t be gorging on pancakes. But I’m hungry, Kurt’s hungry, and Finn’s shovelling enough pancakes in his mouth to feed a small orphanage. Even Burt’s stealing one or two pancakes, all the while studiously avoiding Kurt’s warning glare.

“Where’s Carole?”, Kurt asks his dad, and I assume he’s talking about his stepmother.

“Working the graveyard shift at the hospital,” Burt replies between mouthfuls of pancake, “Annie called in sick, so Carole’s filling in now.”

Kurt nods, and Finn takes another two pancakes from the stack and starts cutting them into pieces near manically. Kurt looks disapproving, but I’m kind of amused.

“Really, Finn?” Kurt asks, seemingly exasperated, “Have you not even looked at the book on manners I gave you for Christmas?”

“Sure I have,” Finn answers, mouth filled with half- chewed pancake, “It’s pretty.”

Kurt looks like he’s about to slap some sense into his brother.

“I mean other than the outside cover, Finn.”

“Oh, no. I haven’t.”

I try to hide my laughter as Burt looks on fondly. Kurt gets up from the table to clear away the plates. I get up to help him, feeling like I’m intruding on a family evening and needing to busy myself with something to feel at least a little bit useful.

As I’m starting to fill the sink with water to clean the dishes (since Burt had just explained that the dishwasher was out of order at the moment. Finn had looked on sheepishly) I hear Finn start to talk again.

“Hey Kurt?”

“Yes, Finn?”, Kurt replies, sounding like he’s expecting Finn to apologise for not having done anything with the gift he had gotten him for Christmas. Which, really, can be considered rude but I know I don’t use all of the gifts I get for Christmas. Like Rick’s. Especially not Rick’s. It’s always some sort of gay- sex related gag item I blush just thinking about.

“Ever hear that joke about the accident in the tunnel?”, Finn asks, and I start to clean the dishes vigorously. I know this joke, and something tells me Kurt won’t find it funny. Especially considering the conversation that’s just ended. From the corner of my eyes, I can see Burt trying to hide a grin. Obviously, he knows it too.

“Want to hear it?”

A sigh. “Sure, Finn. Why not?”

When I hear Kurt’s startled little squeak, I almost wish I hadn’t turned to the dishes. I’m pretty sure it’s a pretty amusing sight to see: Kurt staring in horror at Finn’s open mouth filled with half- chewed pancakes. Burt seems to find it funny enough, judging by his shaking shoulders and him desperately trying to avoid making eye contact with his son.

I scrub hard at the syrup on one of the plates, trying to ignore the gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach. These people seem so happy, so at ease with each other. I know I shouldn’t, but something in me wishes that my family could have been like that. I turn my head a bit to see Kurt playfully smacking his brother over the head over something he said. I sigh.

Maybe following Kurt around like a puppy on a leash won’t be all bad.