Blaine stopped writing as he heard footsteps outside his door. Someone, he guessed by the weight and speed of the steps was his father, had just stopped outside his door. They did not knock; they just stood there for a moment. Blaine guessed his father was debating whether or not to knock. After the moments silence, his father muttered gruffly to the door, "dinners ready." And then there were retreating footsteps going back downstairs.

Blaine sighed. This happened most nights, and he was starting to get used to it. How strange was it that after 2 months he was able to look upon his parents' indifference as if it was normal? Blaine's parents were reluctant to say even one word to him, even less inclined to look at him. He, Blaine, knew that every time his parents laid eyes on him all they thought was gay. Was that all he was to them anymore? Blaine was almost sure of it. Gone were the days where he could get a pat on the shoulder from his father and loving looks from his mother at any signs of achievement of success. Now, he could end world hunger and his parents could probably only envision him in bed with another man.

That's all it was to them. Sex. There was no love, no caring, just sick, perverted sex. Blaine would be lying if he said sex wasn't on his mind all day and night, especially in those mystic moments at night where dreams and sleep were creeping. There was so much more though, so much he just wanted to shout to the world. Blaine wanted to take a photograph of Kurt's eyes, these eyes that seemed to be like a tie dyed ocean of blue and green, and put it on display for the whole world to see. He wanted everyone on earth to become entranced in their shimmering shapes like he did every time he saw them, but at the same time he wanted to keep them all for himself. Blaine wanted everyone to know that only he had seen the real Kurt that existed behind the bitchy looks and snarky comments. Only he had seen the Kurt that seemed to peer out from behind an Alexander McQueen mask, checking to see if his surroundings were safe, to see if Kurt could be himself. Sex was on his mind, was always there, ready to make its presence known, but it was hardly the most beautiful thing about loving Kurt.

Blaine got up from his bed slowly, glancing fondly at his piece of writing. He had tried poetry, but it always seemed to come out too clich� and mundane, and he could not write prose worth his life, but somehow he was highly adept at writing a mixture of the two. It gave him a sense of accomplishment, and he was proud of himself. Blaine wondered what Kurt would think. He closed the journal, wishing he could have more time with it, and placed in his bedside table drawer. He stood behind his door for a moment, enjoying these last few moments of safety and pride, before opening the door and making his way downstairs.

Blaine entered the dining room with the air of someone trying to make himself as invisible as possible. There were thick, dark wooden chairs set around a medium sized rectangular table. It was a high ceilinged room with dark French wallpaper and wooden lining around the ceiling and floor. A dark red oriental rug was placed under the table where his mother and father sat, looking anywhere but at their son. His father was the image of his Blaine given a 30 years aging, and his mother bore nothing but the olive skin and milky brown eyes to resemble him. She was quite pretty, with features resembling Angelina Jolie. As he took in the sight before him as he sat down at his seat, it became apparent that his parents were eating quickly in order to avoid too much uncomfortable time with their son. Blaine scowled, and began playing with his spaghetti with his fork. The air was so thick he found it hard to breathe. It was a huge shock when his mother's voice penetrated the tense atmosphere.

"Marry says you have had a visitor twice this past month." She spoke so curtly, so quickly, Blaine knew she was making conclusions. Marry, their maid, must have told her it was a boy.

"yes." Blaine said roughly. If he wasn't careful, this could result in more violence, not only on his father's part. His facial cuts and bruises had only just healed, he didn't want to replace them, yet his father just sat with his eyes on his hands.

"Do you want to explain yourself then?" his mother's eyes did not meet her sons.

"his name is Kurt, and he is my friend." his mother couched. "My best friend." he added before he could stop himself. As unreasonable, as uncalled for as it was, this seemed to have been taken as a pronouncement of a relationship from Blaine, and his father and mother stood up abruptly.

"It's him then!" his father's voice boomed through the room, hoarse and ragged, as he pointed towards the door, towards what Blaine knew was the image of Kurt, in dire accusation. "He did this to you! No. no! I will not have this. I will not, Blaine you are being foolish. You are playing children's games and you need to grow up and see that this… this thing had perver-"

Blaine rose from his chair in lightning speed, and with an authority that he had no idea existed in him, he growled "you will not call Kurt a thing! He is a human being just like the rest of us, and I love him! You will not insult him!" Blaine glared at his father fury and his mother screeched in a high pitched tone,

"You will not speak to your fath-"

"No!" Blaine growled, and stormed out of the room, wishing nothing more than to smash every expensive vase, to throw the shattered bits into his parent's faces like the shattered bits of his life.

Blaine wanted to scream, he wanted to tear down everything his parents loved and demand the world to tell him why this was happening. There was a time when he would ask why he had to be gay, but now he wanted to know why his parents did not understand. He would not put up with their ignorance any longer. This was it; he was going to make it clear to them that they were not his parents anymore, not until they accepted that he would have never chosen to be gay, and that he had just as much right to be happy with the person that he loved as anyone else.