"And they say our generation isnt political," were the first words that left Kurts lips afterwards. Blaine glanced over from his locker when he saw the boy lean on the one next to him, then sighed out a breath and unloaded his bag into it.
"Dont get me started."
"No, Blaine, youre not allowed. You keep your perverted politics out of this," Kurt said, face deadly serious. "Is that what kids call it nowadays? "Politics"? Back in my day, they were called poofs."
Blaine snorted. "Ive actually been called that before."
"Old racist Grandpa or "Im not racist, but" Uncle?"
"Uncle," he replied, shutting the locker door and facing the other boy properly. "Over Thanksgiving dinner."
"Ouch. How young?"
"Eleven."
"Double ouch. What did you say back?"
Blaine felt the tips of his ears go red. "I...didnt say anything, actually," he said, an air of hesitation to his tone. In front of him, he felt Kurts expression shifting; felt those calculating eyes again, felt them shift like someone tuning a radio to the right frequency.
"Why not?" The question was light, but Blaine felt it pressing. Why didnt you stick up for yourself? Why did you let them walk all over you, you fucking doormat? Thats not the Blaine I know. So the Blaine I know must be a fake- Youre a fake!
Suddenly, his jacket felt too heavy on him. It was crowding his space. "Because I was already crying and didnt- I thought it would make it worse."
When Blaine met Kurts gaze again, the faux seriousness that was once there had hardened into the real kind, and something else that couldnt quite be placed. Some middle ground between concern and care.
"Why were you crying?" he probed.
Pity, whispered the voice in the back of Blaines head. He pities you.
"Because my mom wouldnt come eat with us. She was off in fucking Xanax land. And my dad was drunk, like, fully off his face, too, and I dont know, crying is what I fucking do," Blaine concluded, hurrying the final words out of his mouth in the tone of an apology. He crossed his arms tightly, guarding his chest and the knotting sensation rising there. "So my Not Racist But Uncle called me a poof."
Blaine didnt realise his eyes were on the flood till his jumped at Kurts fingers touching his arm. He looked up, hazel meeting blue, soft enough that Blaine thought he could sink into them and sleep easy. (For once.) "That doesnt make you a poof," he said. "Fucking men, however, makes you a poof."
"Back at you, Kurt Hummel."
"Ooh, first name and surname? Youre acting like we arent friends," Kurt said with a hint of a smile. Immediately, Blaine felt his stomach start unwinding.
"Kurt Elizabeth Hummel."
"Now you sound like my Uncle."
"You have Family Tree Issues too, then?"
"Yep. My moms side of the family is fucking loaded. He offered to pay for conversion therapy."
The knotting returned as soon as it had vanished. "How...?"
"Eleven." Kurt smiled wanely. Then, his hand found Blaines and tugged till his arms unfolded and he could tangle their fingers together again. "Lets go talk, shall we?"