Dinnertime at the Anderson household was never a particularly chatty affair. Forks and knives bonded over their different scrapes and clinks against the plates, glasses held slurping conversations with the mouths that drank from them, and when Blaine was little he’d always pretend that the cutlery had some sort of star-crossed love story going on, like the fork and the knife were married but the fork was secretly in love with the spoon, who showed up sometimes when the fork wasn’t needed.

            Blaine’s considering continuing that storyline, just for something to focus on while the silence in the Anderson family dining room grows louder and louder. He much prefers every other day of the week, when he can escape dinner with the excuse of too much homework and reheat the leftovers after his parents had retired to the living room with their glasses of wine.

            “So, Cooper,” Mr. Anderson clears his throat gruffly, wiping his mouth on his napkin and fixing Cooper with an imposing stare. “Why the sudden return to Ohio? I thought things were going well back in California?”

            “Well, yeah, things were fine, but there are only so many times I can play a dead body, Dad,” Cooper says mildly, reaching for his glass. “I thought it was a good time to come home, reconnect a little bit, really get in touch with my roots again, you know?”

            Blaine tries so hard not to roll his eyes that he almost gives himself a migraine. Cooper recycles the “roots” speech whenever he’s botched an audition and has nothing else to do but to come back and try to figure out what to do next. Blaine actually enjoys Cooper’s visits, apart from the obligatory family dinner that comes out of it, and he really appreciates how hard Cooper’s been trying to stay close to him over the past year. Blaine has almost trained him out of the pointing by now.

            “I see.” Mr. Anderson returns his focus to his plate, dropping the conversation abruptly, and Blaine almost feels bad for Cooper – he looks so confused and forlorn as he quietly finishes off his meal.

            Mrs. Anderson at least smiles at her eldest son, and Blaine stares awkwardly down at his plate as the silence resumes.

            Looks like Mrs. Spoon finally won the attention of Mr. Fork, he thinks, using his spoon and fork to scoop up his remaining peas.

            Blaine’s really glad Kurt doesn’t know what he does during dinner.

            “How did the dinner go?” Kurt asks teasingly when Blaine bursts through the door of Kurt’s house later that night, so grateful that Burt and Carole have let Kurt and Blaine have the house to themselves for a couple nights while Kurt visits that Blaine might buy them an edible arrangement to say thank you. Blaine muffles a groan in Kurt’s stomach as he dives face-first into his boyfriend’s lap, and Kurt squeals a little, catching at the back of the couch before petting over Blaine’s loose curls.

            “That bad, huh?” Blaine butts his head into Kurt’s hand, body arching like a cat, and Kurt laughs, calling here, kitty kitty as Blaine performs his best meow.

            “No, yeah, it was pretty bad,” he says finally, slotting himself between Kurt’s legs and resting his cheek on Kurt’s chest, arms encircling his boyfriend’s waist. “Dad grilled Cooper about his life choices and me and Mom just kind of sat there stuffing our faces with potatoes. I actually felt pretty bad for him.” Blaine doesn’t mention his cutlery soap opera.

            “Yeah, why is he back, anyway?” Kurt asks, fingers massaging over Blaine’s scalp, and Blaine practically purrs at the sensation.

            “Mm, that old earth roots routine – oh my god, Kurt, please go into massage therapy.”

            Kurt giggles, adorably pink-cheeked and cuddly in Blaine’s McKinley sweatshirt, and Blaine stretches up, knocking Kurt back against the arm of the couch to kiss him breathless.

            “I’m so glad you’re here,” he murmurs, kissing down Kurt’s neck and licking a stripe across his collarbone before Kurt squawks something about being ticklish.

            “Ah, Blaine, you know I’m sensitive there, you sadist – I’m glad I’m here, too.” Kurt’s hands trace over Blaine’s cheek and his eyes are soft as he lifts his head to smile down at Blaine, as beautiful as he always is. “New York isn’t all that bright without you.”

            “Just a few more months,” Blaine says softly, twisting his head to press a kiss into Kurt’s hand. “Then we can move in together and fight over what color we want our curtains to be.”

            “There won’t be an argument because they’re going to be peach,” Kurt says, smiling so brightly that Blaine wonders how it doesn’t short-circuit the electricity.

            “Whatever you say, dear,” Blaine says airily, and Kurt pulls Blaine down to his chest, dropping a tender kiss to Blaine’s forehead.

            “Let’s stay here forever,” he whispers, and Blaine agrees whole-heartedly.

            Of course, it’s not that easy, not when Santana’s involved. She storms into Kurt’s bedroom right the following night, just as Blaine’s ripping open the condom and Kurt’s making those high, keening noises that Blaine’s missed so much, and Blaine shouts in surprise, and he swears his boner deflates faster than a popped balloon.

            “Santana!” Kurt screams, diving sideways off the bed, dragging the sheets with him and leaving Blaine sitting there buck naked as Santana strolls into the bedroom, leopard-printed heels and all, devilish smile plastered on her face.

            “Get dressed, Short-Stack, we’re going out. You too, Lady Lips, I see you down there. You didn’t actually think you were going to get away with staying cooped up in your hobbit hole the whole time you were here, did you?”

            Kurt’s head pokes up, beet red and glaring. “You do know what a cell phone is, don’t you?”

            Santana scoffs. “Oh please, like you would have answered it? Judging by that condom Curly Top there is holding, this was the only way I would get you out of here. You can thank the gorilla we know and love as Finn for spilling the beans on your location. Now get your asses clothed.”

            She smiles pleasantly and saunters out, skin-tight leather dress squeaking slightly as she went.

            “How quickly could we run if we murdered her?” Kurt hisses, reaching for his pants.

            “We’d have to stop to kill Finn, too,” Blaine mutters, throwing the condom as hard as he can at the back of Santana’s head.

            Santana, the conniving little devil that she is, ends up getting her way. She always does.

            Kurt and Blaine, mostly presentable, if ruffled with irritation, pile into Santana’s convertible and off they go, zooming over the speed limit onto the highway and out of Lima.

            “Where are we going?” Kurt asks stiffly, headlights playing over his stony face. Santana glances back at them in the rearview mirror, one perfect eyebrow raised.

            “Like there’s any good bar scenes in Lima? Please, Hummel, we want a good time, not a coma.”

            Kurt rolls his eyes, snuggling back into Blaine’s arms and Blaine sighs, drumming his fingers against Kurt’s thigh. Leave it to Santana to ruin not one, but two perfectly good boners.

            As if she can read his mind, Santana sticks her tongue out at him, dark eyes glinting playfully. “Come on, gays, you’ll be able to fuck each other senseless as soon as we get back to Lima, loosen up your panties. Let’s have some fun, si?”

            “Okay, okay,” Blaine says grudgingly. “But I hope you’re aware that I will not be getting drunk. Someone has to drive us home.”

            Santana winks. “Don’t worry, Slutty Drunk Extraordinaire, I’ve rented us a hotel room in Columbus. I will be around at all times to ensure that no wrong-gender kisses occur.”

            Strangely, Blaine is not comforted.

            “Help me,” he groans into Kurt’s shoulder, and Kurt can’t hold back a giggle.

            True to her word, Santana has done her research and picked the bar least likely to put anyone in a coma, though Blaine thinks that his and Santana’s definitions of “a good time” are a little varied.

            “Bottoms up, ladies!” Santana crows, passing around shots as soon as they reach the bar, and Blaine downs it after announcing that he’ll be limiting himself at three. Santana just laughs at him. Kurt’s cheeks are flushed with the heat of all the bodies, all dancing and grinding, reeking of alcohol. Blaine presses a kiss to the spread of color and Kurt smiles, looping his arms around Blaine’s waist while Santana mimes vomiting into her shot glass.

            “God, you two really have gotten more sickeningly adorable. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that shit, huh?”

            Contrary to his expectations, Blaine finds himself loosening up and actually enjoying himself. Santana regales Kurt with her tales of waitressing at Breadstix while Brittany finishes senior year with Blaine (they give you free breadsticks if you work there, I swear it’s my calling) and Kurt tells her all about his fashion internship and the things he’s accomplished in the big city while Blaine listens, never tiring of hearing about Kurt’s success, so achingly proud of his boyfriend. It almost makes it okay that Blaine’s not there with him when Kurt’s achieving so many amazing things.

            Four shots later and Santana’s tipsy, teetering on her stood as she forces a beer into Blaine’s hands.

            “Come on, Burt Reynolds, loosen your tight ass up!” she commands, and Kurt smirks, murmuring something about that job already being done and Santana shoots vodka out her nose.

            Once Santana is drunk, Kurt is smiley and giddy, and Blaine’s feeling a pleasant buzz that presses him closer to Kurt and makes him feel warm and floaty, Santana herds them out of the thumping bar, ignoring their protests.

            “Santanaaaa, what are you doing?” Kurt whines, tripping onto the sidewalk and catching himself on Blaine’s shoulders.

            “Shut up, Hummel, I’ve got more plans,” Santana says disparagingly, hiccupping slightly and shooing them down the street. Blaine’s amazed she can still walk in her heels, which could easily pass for daggers in all 50 states.

            “What plans are these, Santana?” Blaine asks warily, taking Kurt’s hand as he veers in front of a group of women, pulling him back. “You’re not gonna watch us have sex, are you? Cause, like, no.”

            “Gross, no, I have OnDemand for that, Blainers,” Santana says dismissively. “Oh no, you guys are gonna love this.”

            Blaine’s instantly on alert, because when has he ever loved anything Santana said he would? She’s got something awful planned, and sure enough, he sees the neon sign and blacked-out windows Santana’s herding them towards and balks.

            “Oh no,” Kurt says abruptly, stopping dead in the middle of the sidewalk, looking suddenly, painfully sober. “Santana, no.”

            “In.” Santana says firmly, grabbing them both by the collars and forcing them into the strip joint. A men’s strip joint.

            “Santana, you don’t even like men!” Blaine squawks indignantly, struggling, but Santana’s long nails dig into the back of his heck and he has no choice but to stumble forward into the stage lights that instantly blind him.

            “This is all for you, baby gays!” Santana shouts over the strains of It’s Raining Men and the screams of about 100 drooling women as the door clunks shut behind them.

            “Oh my god,” Kurt says repeatedly, eyes huge and reflecting the colorful stage lights. “Oh my god. Oh my god, Santana, we are literally the only two gay people in here!”

            “Three,” Santana corrects, stalking over to a vacant table with Kurt and Blaine still in her clutches, and Blaine just stares up at the stage in mixed horror and arousal as the men throw down umbrellas and promptly rip off their trench coats, revealing shiny, tan skin that ripples with pure muscle. The men – male strippers, Blaine realizes, he is in a male strip club watching male strippers with his boyfriend and best lesbian, what the hell happened to his nice, normal life – roll their hips obscenely, hands skimming over their chests and stomachs, palming themselves through their pants, and Blaine feels his blood rush in both directions.

            “Oh my god,” Kurt whispers, peeking through his fingers, flushed all the way down to his collar, and Santana just catcalls along with all the other women while Blaine sinks lower and lower in his seat.

            Their table has a magnificent view of the stage, and Blaine isn’t sure if this is a curse or a blessing as the men strip down even more, clothes flying into the audience, and Kurt shrieks as a tie lands squarely in his lap, and Blaine can’t help it, he starts laughing.

            The lights dim and the women scream (Blaine thinks one or two of them might actually be having orgasms right there in their seats) and the men dance off backstage, blowing kisses and winking at the crowd as they go.

            “Isn’t this great?” Santana hollers, leaning in close to shout over the music, and Kurt turns, looking as if he might strangle her with the tie in his hands. “You get to ogle especially well-endowed man candy, and I get to appreciate all the women willing to bare their tits in hopes of a lap dance.” Santana leans back in her chair, crossing her legs, and practically preens. “This is a win-win situation, boys.”

            Blaine’s about to say something withering, but the lights come back up and the MC is introducing “Doctor Love,” and Blaine just shakes his head, pants way too tight for his liking and thinking of ways he could slip poison into Santana’s next drink.

            “Can we get any volunteers?” the MC booms in a southern drawl, and two men strut out in hospital scrubs, rolling a gurney between them. “Anybody out there need some saving tonight?”

            Kurt and Blaine immediately slide low in their seats while Santana howls with laugher, and a blushing, breathless woman a few tables over is called up.

            Thumping hip-hop blasts from the speakers at the “doctors” lay the woman down on the gurney and the taller of the two walks slowly towards her, rolling his shoulders in time to the beat, carelessly tousling his wavy brown hair and – oh my god hold the fuck up.

            Blaine freezes, mouth dropping open, because oh no, oh NO, that can’t be – please don’t let it be –

            “Oh my dear god,” Blaine hears Kurt stammer and Santana splutters, “Blaine, is that - ?!”

            It’s Cooper. Blaine’s brother is up on that stage, arching his body and rolling his hips to the music and Blaine thinks he’s spontaneously combusting, or maybe his brain is leaking out his ears, or maybe – he likes this one best – maybe Santana crashed the car on the highway and he cracked his skull and now he’s hallucinating, because there’s no way that this is actually happening and Cooper’s ripping off his clothes and why is he so shiny?! and he’s climbing up on the gurney, hips rocking the whole time, straddling the woman and oh my god is that a thong.

            Blaine has literally never wanted to drown himself in bleach as much as he does now and oh god he has to look away but his brain has short-circuited and a thong a thong Cooper is a stripper and he’s waxed and wearing a thong A FUCKING THONG PLEASE NO.

            Cooper grips the head of the gurney and fucking thrusts, body rolling down towards the woman on the gurney, who Blaine supposes must be greatly enjoying a faceful of Cooper’s junk and oh god oh my GOD. Cooper just keeps rocking his hips and thrusting his crotch into the woman’s face, and Blaine is definitely going to drink a gallon of bleach as soon as he escapes from this horror.

            “Blaine?” Kurt squeaks, and Blaine finally tears his eyes away from Cooper’s ass – oh my god my brother is practically naked and I just watched him face-fuck this poor woman oh. My. God – to see Kurt staring at him, eyes bigger than dinner plates, mouth hanging down to the floor. Blaine decides he must look pretty similar.

            Santana, of course, is beside herself, shrieking and laughing and whistling and grooving to the song as Cooper straightens up, lifting his arms into the air, and the place explodes.

            “Tell me baby, if it’s wrong,” the speakers croon, and yeah, it’s wrong. It’s so, so wrong.

            “You never told me brother Anderson’s a certified piece of ass!” Santana screams as the lights dim, and Kurt is just sort of spluttering and Blaine thinks he might be in shock.

            “Oh my god, that was GREAT!” she continues, fanning herself and scrambling for her purse. “Where’s my wallet, I think I have a twenty in here with his name on it –”

            “Don’t you DARE!” Blaine yelps, making a grab for her, but she’s quicker and more agile than he is, even while intoxicated, the sly little shit, and she’s off, racing backstage in her impossible heels.

            Blaine throws Kurt a look of desperation before he takes off after her, ducking under the curtain with Kurt right at his heels, and he is promptly met with a faceful of huge dick.

            “Watch it, kid!” the huge (in both terms of the word) guy yelps, nearly losing his hold on some kind of pump (oh my god that’s great, more bleach for Blaine, please) and looking down at them in confusion.

            “S-sorry,” Blaine stammers, edging around him and he can hear Kurt just kind of choking behind him as he searches desperately for Santana. He finally spots her, waylaid by some blonde-haired guy in a camo thong who’s openly flirting with her, and Blaine’s barreling towards her, fully prepared to knock her out so she can’t remember anything, throw her over his shoulder, and escape so they can pretend this never happened, when Cooper’s voice rings out from behind shelves and shelves of various costumes and toys, and oh my god what is THAT can this possible get any WORSE.

            “Hey, Richie, you better get pumped up, they’re bloodthirsty out there –” Cooper rounds the corner, now thankfully clothed in a tan shirt and camouflage pants, and stops dead when he sees Kurt and Blaine. Cooper just gapes, blue eyes huge and maybe almost as horrified as Blaine feels with half-naked strippers milling around him in the dim light, and the MC has time to announce “Big Dick Richie” before Cooper relocates his vocal cords and chokes, “Oh hey, Squirt.”

            “Do NOT call me that!” Blaine splutters, and Cooper’s face falls. “I – Coop – oh my GOD!”

            “Well hello, Doctor Love.” Santana’s found them. Blaine drops his head into his palm.

            “Santana, right?” Cooper calls over the cheers and pulse of music from onstage, and Santana just winks and fans herself.

            “I thought you were lesbian,” Kurt hisses at her, and she just shrugs.

            “I can appreciate a damn fine ass when I see it.”

            “Oh. Hi, Kurt.” Cooper finally notices Kurt, who’s sort of hovering at Blaine’s elbow, looking at Santana like she might be contagious.

            “Hello, Cooper,” Kurt says faintly, and Cooper glances around, running a hand through his hair.

            “Uh, do you… wanna talk about this -?”

            “About why I just watched you rub your dick on some lady’s face?” Blaine yelps. “About why you’re as shiny as a disco ball? About why you gave up NCIS to become a stripper? Yeah, I guess I’m a little curious.”

            “Hey, don’t hate, the man’s got talent!” Santana pipes up, and Blaine waves his hand at her, raising his eyebrows at his brother.

            “Well, it wasn’t exactly like that!” Cooper says indignantly, bouncing uncomfortably on the balls of his feet. “It wasn’t working out in LA and I needed some easy money to get back on my feet.”

            “Seems like you found more than your roots,” Blaine says, and he can’t help it, he’s laughing, because this is so ridiculous and so utterly Cooper.

            Cooper smirks wryly, clapping Blaine on the shoulder before someone calls “Ken, come on, finale’s in three!”

            “Ken?” Blaine raises one eyebrow, wondering if he even wants to hear the explanation to that one.”

            “You missed my living doll act,” Cooper says, looking far, far too proud for his own good. “Maybe I should show you sometime – ”

            “Oh my god, GO!” Blaine explodes, shoving his brother towards the line of army-clad strippers at the backstage curtain. Cooper laughs loudly and darts off, waving at Santana and Kurt and calling over his shoulder, “I’ll see you guys later – oh, Blainey – think you could maybe not mention this to Mom and Dad? Something tells me they won’t be too thrilled if they hear about this.” He looks so anxious that Blaine has to laugh.

            “Somehow I don’t see this coming up at the dinner table, Coop.” Cooper looks relieved and grins, saluting as the MC announces the finale of the show and the cheers rattle the ceiling.

            Cooper Anderson the stripper. Blaine’s never letting Cooper live this one down.

            Kurt tugs at Blaine’s elbow as Santana wanders a little ways to inspect some of the more colorful props, and Blaine turns, pulling Kurt into a kiss.

            “I’m sorry you had to witness that,” he sighs, stroking a loose lock of hair back from Kurt’s forehead. Kurt blushes a little and bites his lip, fidgeting in Blaine’s arms.

            “What?”

            Kurt looks properly apologetic. “Can we… can we go watch?”