Pulling the Puzzles Apart

When the doorbell rang, he hauled himself off of the couch and answered it, fully prepared to tell that Locke idiot from three doors over that no, you may not borrow my power sander until you return the buzzsaw you borrowed two and a half weeks ago. He opened the door with an irritated sigh. "Look James—"

Instead of his tall, lanky neighbor, a short, disheveled kid leaned heavily on a pillar supporting the awning. "Hey there, Mr. Hummel."

Burt's jaw dropped. Blaine's eyes were completely bloodshot and slipping in and out of focus. His normally overly-gelled curls were wild and free, and his clothes, usually reminiscent of Burt's seventy-five-year-old father-in-law, had been replaced by a Dalton hoodie and gray sweatpants. The kid was a mess.

"Blaine, are—are you drunk?"

Blaine sniffled heavily and shoved his hands in the front pouch of the sweatshirt. "I'm not—hic!—okay, maybe a little."

"C'mere, kid." Burt placed a hand on Blaine's elbow and gently guided him inside, making sure the teenager didn't stumble his way into a wall. He settled the boy onto the couch. "Carole!"

His wife bustled in from the kitchen. "Who was at the door, Burt?" Her eyes landed on the boy. "Oh, Blaine, dear, how nice to—oh." She hurried to the couch and sat beside Blaine, an arm immediately wrapping around his hunched shoulders. "Sweetheart, what's wrong?"

"I think we all know what's wrong here." Burt leaned against the wall of the living room, arms crossed and eyes narrowed.

Blaine looked up at him weakly. "I guess Kurt told you."

"If by 'told me' you mean 'called me up with a voice like a zombie to tell me the love of his life, the first person to make him feel like a real human being, the person he gave everything to, had an affair,' then yes."

"I guess you hate me, then, huh?" Burt was startled by the question. Blaine took his silence as a confirmation. "It's okay. I hate me, too."

Carole glared at her husband, and Burt ducked his head. He knew this kid. He'd watched him grow for over a year, starting at a shy, unsure boy to a confident, happy, head-over-heels man. He'd watched this man make his own son a better person, a more complete person, and he owed him a lot.

Burt nodded at Carole, and the woman left the room after giving Blaine a tight squeeze. Burt took her place on the couch and rested his elbows on his knees. "I don't hate you, kid."

Blaine turned his head, eyes hopeful despite the redness. "Thanks," he whispered. He looked up at the pictures of Kurt on the mantel above the fireplace. "You have the most beautiful son in the world."

"I know."

"...It's not just that he's beautiful. He's strong, and smart, and brave, and funny, and really good in bed—"

"Blaine."

"Sorry." He paused for a moment before continuing. "That's not why I did it. I didn't do it because...because I'm some horny teenager with unconbrollatral—I mean, uncontrollable urges. I was just...I..." He buried his face in his hands. "I don't know," he sobbed. "I don't even know."

---

In the kitchen, Carole snatched the portable phone from its cradle and dialed a number she'd memorized months ago. She waited for a moment before hearing a soft "Dad?" in her ear.

"No, sweetie, it's Carole."

"Carole?" Kurt suddenly sounded much more alert. "What happened? Is it Dad? Is it his heart?"

"No, Kurt, calm down. Your father's fine." She waited for the man's breathing to regulate. "It's Blaine."

The breathing stopped altogether. "Blaine?"

"He's here." Silence. "He's also drunk."

Carole barely heard a breathy "Dammit," followed by shuffling and the sound of a lamp being clicked on. "Carole, I'm sorry that you have to deal with this, but I'm just—I'm just not ready to talk to him."

"I know that sweetie, but..." She poked her head into the living room, where Burt was rubbing soothing circles on Blaine's back as the boy's body shook with sobs. "Maybe you should let him do th talking."

Kurt sighed. "What do you...fine."

Carole hit the speakerphone button and tiptoed into the living room. She set the device on the table, hidden behind a decorative bowl, and left, motioning for Burt to restart the conversation.

The older man looked put on the spot, but then nudged Blaine slightly. "Hey kiddo, come on, sit up."

Blaine leaned back into the couch. "I'm sorry for barging in like this, I should—I should go—" He made to stand up, but promptly fell backward with an oomph.

"You're not going anywhere, kid. Did you drive here?"

Blaine looked sheepish. "I know, it was...it was dumb, but...I had to talk to you...I had to tell you...to ask you..."

"Ask me what, bud?"

"Does he hate me?"

Burt was glad Blaine was too far gone to hear the slight gasp from the hidden telephone. "Well, son, I don't know if he hates you. I'm not inside his head. I know he's hurt though." Burt paused. "Blaine, why'd you do it?"

Blaine's eyes fluttered closed. "You gotta...you gotta understand what Kurt did to me. When I first met 'im...I was Blaine Warb—hic!—Warbler. I only mattered 'cause I could sing. It was the only time people would...would listen.

"But then Kurt came along and bam! He wanted to hear what I had to say, not what the council had to say or what Cooper had to say or Dad or nunevum. I felt like a real person again.

"But when he left...I get it, okay?" Blaine pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, his voice hitching as he continued. "I get that I told him to go. I get that he doesn't belong in this fucking godforsaken town. I get that followed his dream. But...when he...when he stopped...taking my calls and...and mak-making our Skype dates and...acknowledging my existence, I just...

"And then Eli showed up on my Facebook, and it was like...like I mattered again. He cared about what I had to say, about my success, about me. And I just...I didn't feel alone anymore.

"But I knew!" Blaine leapt from the couch, fingers twisting angrily in his hair. He paced back and forth in front of the fireplace, weaving a little in his inebriation. "I knew he just wanted in my pants, I knew he didn't really care, I knew I was betraying Kurt, and I fucking did it anyway! What the hell is wrong with me?! If I wasn't such a damn coward—"

"You aren't a coward, Blaine," Burt interrupted softly. Blaine stopped in his tracks. "Being scared and feeling alone doesn't make you a coward. We all do stupid things, Blaine. We all make mistakes that we'll never be able to take back. Being a coward doesn't mean screwing up. Being a coward means running away from the consequences of those screw-ups.

"And Blaine? You have always, always mattered."

Blaine stared at his ex-boyfriend's father for a long time before slouching over to the couch and collapsing on it. He drew his legs up to his chest clumsily. "I haven't slept in my bed since we broke up."

"Huh?"

"I couldn't...I couldn't sleep where we...I didn't deserve it. I've been sleeping on the floor, or the couch, or Coop's old room. Just...not there. It hurts too much."

Burt wanted to scoop the boy into his arms and rock him to sleep like he used to with Kurt, but the conflicting feelings of this kid broke my baby's heart and yeah but this baby's heart is broken too kept him rooted in place. "Blaine...it's been two and a half months. Who have you talked to about this?"

"Margaret Thatcher-Dog and Jack Daniels." The boy's voice was starting to slur heavily, more with fatigue than with intoxication.

Burt shook his shoulder to wake him. "Blaine, you can't do this. If you bottle your emotions and then drown them in alcohol, you're setting yourself up for a lifetime of misery. I don't want to say Kurt isn't worth it, because he's my kid and I think he's worth everything in this damn world, but you can't destroy yourself over a break-up."

Blaine snorted thickly. "Just don't tell Cooper 'bout this. Think he wantsta put me in AA or somethin'." His eyes drooped shut. "I just don't wanna be lonely anymore."

"Dad." The soft voice from the phone caught Burt's attention. Burt lifted the device and, switching off speakerphone, pressed it to his ear. "Let me talk to him."

"You sure 'bout this, bud?"

"Yeah."

Burt leaned down and shook Blaine back to consciousness again. "Hey kid, there's someone on the phone for you."

Blaine accepted the phone wearily. "I told you not to call Cooper," he grumbled, holding it to his ear.

"Blaine."

Blaine stopped breathing. "Kurt?"

"Yeah. Before you say anything, I need you to do something for me."

"I'll do anything, I swear it, swear it before the squirrel I think I ran over on my way here—"

"Blaine."

"Yeah, right, sorry."

"Okay, what I need you to do is go upstairs to my bedroom. There should be some of my pajamas in the top right drawer of my dresser. Put them on and crawl into bed, okay?"

"Mmkay." Blaine fumbled to his feet and shuffled to the stairs. As he climbed them, Burt followed a few steps behind, making sure the drunken boy didn't fall backward and die. "You're so pretty, Kurt," Blaine babbled into the phone. "You're just so pretty. And you smell nice. My pillow still smells like you. That's why I sleep in Cooper's bed. Coop's pillow smells like Old Spice. You hate Old Spice. You like my cologne. Do you still like my cologne? It's Calvin and Hobbs—no, wait, Calvin Klein, you love him. I wish you loved me. You shouldn't love me. I'm a bad person."

"Go get dressed, Blaine." The tiny voice in his ear made the room spin less as Blaine climbed out of his ratty sweats and into a Hummel Tire & Lube t-shirt and loose yoga pants.

"These smell like you, too. Everything smells like you. Gosh you smell pretty."

"Go lay down, Blaine."

Blaine crawled obediently into bed and snuggled under the duvet. He gripped the phone like a lifeline. "I'm here. Do you remember what we did here, Kurt?" Burt took that as his cue to duck out of the room. "Do you remember? God you feel so good. He's nothing like you. He was...god, Kurt, he wasn't even pretty. But he talked to me. I missed you talking to me. I just wanted you to love me again. I guess my plan didn't work." His eyes were completely closed. "Hey Kurt?" he mumbled.

"Yeah?"

"Can you sing to me? I miss your voice."

"Sure Blaine." Blaine pulled the comforter even closer to his chin and laid the phone by his ear. "You ready?"

"Mhm."

"Blackbird singing in the dead of night,
Take these broken wings and learn to fly.
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise.
You were only waiting for this moment to arise."

As Kurt sang, Blaine drifted closer and closer to sleep. Kurt's voice broke a few times, but Blaine was too close to unconsciousness to hear the sobs. All he heard was the angelic voice that hit him like a ton of bricks that day in the senior commons.

"You were only waiting for this moment to arise.
You were only waiting for this moment to arise."

As Kurt's song trailed off, his tears were more audible. "I love you," Blaine murmured, finally succumbing to sleep completely.

"I love you too, Blaine," Kurt whispered. "I never stopped."