He was born at 4:53pm on December 8, 1988 at Harborview Medical Center in Seattle, WA. His parents named him Oliver Sandhurst Anderson, and would always call him Oliver, though as he grew older he began to go by Ollie. It suited him better than the stuffy, traditional English names that his stuffy, traditional English parents had given him. He never did understand what could have brought his parents to America from their home in Surrey. Much less what could have ever brought them—Paul, a proper, Oxford educated businessman, and Abigail, a proper, St. Andrew’s educated housewife—to Seattle of all places. To Capitol Hill nonetheless.

All right, so technically he had grown up in the Madrona neighborhood. His childhood home had been a large brick colonial with a view of Lake Washington (if you stood in exactly the right place in the front yard and peered into the gap between the Rivera’s house and their giant douglas fir) but it had only been a fifteen minute ride on the 2 to get to the stop at Union and Broadway, and then. Then Ollie was where he had actually grown up. The eccentric people that would wander up and down Pine Street, stopping to watch guys on bikes play polo at the park across from that awesome Mexican place, or the slightly less eccentric people who Ollie would watch busk outside Caffé Vita—these were the ones who really shaped Ollie’s life.

These people seemed to get him more than his parents did. They got that all he wanted to do was make music. Ollie had seen bands like Nirvana (though granted he had been very young) and Foo Fighters and Modest Mouse rise. He immersed himself in that grunge culture that never really seemed to die in the Pacific Northwest. Hell, he learned to play the guitar from a guy called Phil who had blond dreds pulled back in a ponytail and always wore the same holey plaid flannel and ratty black converse no matter the weather. Ollie had loved everything that rock music stood for: fighting loudly for whatever it was you believed in while not giving a shit about naysayers, and just the pure and raw emotional release that an angsty wail into a mic and a good bass line could bring. It was a catharsis. Of course, his father had wanted nothing more than for Ollie to go to Oxford as five generations of Anderson men have, Oliver, it’s a legacy and to get a job at some large company like Microsoft, Oliver, so you could follow in my footsteps because Lord knows that Blaine probably never will.

Blaine. Ollie’s little brother. The oft forgotten middle child who was four and half years Ollie’s junior and the sweetest person Ollie had ever known. He had always been a quiet child: more studious than Ollie or their little sister, Adele/Addie-if-you-know-what’s-good-for-you, had ever been and always had his nose stuck in some book. When Blaine hit middle school, Ollie started to take him on the 2 with him on weekends. Blaine would spend hours trolling around Elliott Bay Book Company or the shelves in secondhand stores while Ollie would play his guitar outside, giving half of whatever he’d make in tips to his brother to buy that book he couldn’t live without.

Blaine had always been an observer. He’d watch from his place leaning against the brick building Ollie was playing outside of, as people would stop and listen. And Ollie would watch Blaine. He’d notice how Blaine’s eyes would linger over certain people—never the artsy chicks that would catch Ollie’s attention. No, usually it was a nicely groomed guy, or occasionally the clasped hands of two nicely groomed guys. Ollie had his suspicions, but Blaine was only in sixth grade and so he’d keep strumming his guitar while his brother kept watching.

The summer before Ollie started his freshman year at the University of Washington, Oliver? An American state school? Whatever happened to Oxford? Blaine started to sing while Ollie played guitar. He’d been writing his own lyrics, Ollie found, lyrics far more painful and confused than a soon-to-be-eighth-grader had any right to be singing. But Ollie let it slide, because eventually his brother would come to him. He always did.

Blaine’s voice was different from many of the other buskers’ in the area. It was a smooth and surprisingly strong tenor that made clever use of a killer falsetto. Ollie taught Blaine to play the guitar that summer, so that he could keep singing while Ollie was up in the U District during the week. The kid was a natural, picking up the instrument much faster than Ollie had, but he still preferred to have a worn copy of To Kill a Mockingbird clutched in his hands than the hand-me-down Yamaha that Ollie had given him.

In November, when Ollie was home for Thanksgiving break (a holiday his still very English parents only half-heartedly celebrated) Blaine told him that he still went to their place on the corner of 11th and Pike every Friday, and that the regulars still came by and still tipped generously. They went up to Ollie’s room after their traditional Thanksgiving dinner of Chinese takeout and locked the door before a then nearly 10-year-old (and exceedingly annoying) Addie could tag along and break something. Blaine played some new songs for Ollie, and after one particularly gut-wrenching verse, he just couldn’t wait any longer for his brother to come to him. Blaine was getting to the bridge and really going for it—his face twisting up as he reached for a particularly high note—when Ollie interrupted him.

“Blaine. Blaine, stop.”

Blaine startled a bit and the room filled with the sound of a distracted, sour chord. Both boys cringed.

“Oh, sorry,” Blaine said. “What’s wrong? Didn’t you like it? I was thinking of playing it on our corner next Friday. There isn’t really any point to going out tomorrow because—”

“No, no, it’s not that. I like everything you write. It’s not all my style, but it’s all good. No. No, I need to ask you something,” Ollie said. He leaned forward on the edge of his bed and put his elbows on his knees, looking Blaine dead in the eye where he sat leaning against the door.

Blaine just smirked slightly and turned back to the fretboard to reposition his fingers. “You’re my older brother. Aren’t I supposed to come to you with questions?”

“That’s kind of where I’m going with this, man.”

“What do you mean?”

Ollie sighed and rubbed his face as Blaine watched him with his eyebrows furrowed. A few seconds passed, and then Ollie let his hands fall so he could look his brother in the eyes again.

“Dude, are you gay?”

Blaine’s face drained of color and his left hand fell from the neck of the guitar. His eyes went wide for a second before he regained composure, his head snapping down to look at where his hand had fallen into his lap. Ollie felt his heart clench.

“Wh-what makes you th-think that?” Blaine asked, his voice tight. Ollie slipped off the edge of his bed and sat cross-legged in front of this trembling boy.

“Blaine, look at me. Look at me.” Ollie put a hand on his shoulder until Blaine finally did. “Dude, it doesn’t matter. You know that, right? You’ve seen all the guys down on Broadway. I know you have. I’ve seen you watching them.” Blaine’s eyes widened again at that. “Come on, man, you can tell me. This isn’t, like, fuckin’ Alabama or something. We live in Seattle. You really think anyone’s gonna care here?”

Blaine’s face crumpled. He took the guitar, leaned it against the wall, and hugged his knees to his chest, burying his face in his arms.

“The guys at school care,” he mumbled, barely loud enough for Ollie to hear, and his shoulders began to shake. Ollie blinked.

“Wha-?”

“I said the guys at school fucking care!” Blaine shouted, looking at Ollie with fierce, teary eyes. And Ollie could see so much anger and hurt in just a split second before Blaine started again, quieter this time. “I don’t even know how it started. I’ve never told anyone, and you’re the first person who’s ever asked.”

“Blaine, what’s going on?”

Blaine sniffed and wiped his eyes, now avoiding Ollie’s. “Nothing. Just some guys at school are giving me a hard time.”

“It’s not nothing if it’s making you this upset, man. What are they doing?”

“Just saying stuff,” he said. At Ollie’s raised eyebrow, he continued. “Calling me names. Faggot. Queer. Fairy. Stuff like that. Doing stuff like avoiding me in the locker room. Someone peed on my gym shirt a few days ago.”

“What? Dude, that’s disgusting! And those little dipshits don’t have any right to be calling you anything. Have you told your teachers?”

“I can’t prove anything,” Blaine said softly. Ollie scoffed.

“Aw, come on, man! Someone pissed on your shirt, and if they did it ‘cause they think you’re gay, that’s, like, a hate crime. And those names? Pretty sure that’s verbal abuse, or something.”

“It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Yeah, it really is, Blaine. I don’t know if Mom and Dad would do anything, but I’m an adult now. I could go down there and talk to someone if—”

“No! Just, just leave it alone, okay? I can handle it. Promise me you’ll leave it alone.”

“Blaine—”

“Promise me, Oliver!”

Ollie blinked. Blaine only ever used his full name when he really meant it. The tears were gone now, and all Ollie saw in Blaine’s eyes was the stubborn determination all three of the siblings had inherited from their father.

“Yeah, man, okay. Sure. Just, know that I’m here, okay?”

Blaine nodded, stood, grabbed his guitar and left Ollie sitting on the floor of his room. Ollie watched his brother enter his own room directly across the hall and heard the click of the lock as the door shut. A few seconds later, he heard a muffled shout of frustration, a dull thudding crack, and then his mother’s posh accent drifting up the stairs.

“Blaine Edward Anderson! If you’ve put another hole in your wall, I swear to God you are grounded for a month!”

So things went forward. Ollie kept his promise and never mentioned Blaine’s bully problem again. And then it was summer, and Ollie and Blaine would go down to 11th and Pike almost every afternoon, staying well into the evening. Sometimes they would play together, Blaine on his hand-me-down Yamaha and Ollie on the brand new Taylor their dad had bought him in an odd fit of extremely generous affection (which had also landed Blaine several leather-bound copies of his favorite classics and Addie a full-sized trampoline). Sometimes Ollie would play and Blaine would just sing. And sometimes Blaine would lean against the building and read while Ollie played alone.

Then one night while they were riding the 2 on their way home, each eighty bucks richer, Ollie’s little brother officially came out to him. Blaine wanted Ollie to be there when he told their parents, and he was. If their mom and dad had any negative thoughts about their middle child being gay, they certainly didn’t mention it. Not that they said much of anything. And so Blaine’s sexuality quickly became an unmentioned topic in the Anderson house because really, Oliver I don’t see why you’re pushing this. Your brother is…well…what is there to say?

Soon enough, Ollie entered his sophomore year at UW as a newly declared music major, and Blaine entered high school as a now openly gay teen. It was the year they each met someone who would change their lives.

Frances “Frankie” Rodgers was a freshman art major who lived on Ollie’s floor in the dorms. She was tiny, just over five feet tall with delicate features and brown eyes slightly too big for her face. They met when Ollie was walking to the elevator and Frankie sprinted out of her room and ran smack into him. She had said sorry and disappeared as quickly as she’d come. They didn’t really talk for a few months, just smiled and nodded at each other in the elevator. Not until she had knocked on his door at 2am one morning, drunk off her ass, and proclaimed that he was the cutest little fucker ever, seriously, I’m not even joking, and can we just go out already? He’d told her “sure,” and then walked her back down the hall to her room, where a girl he assumed was her roommate sat on the floor with her mouth open before breaking into drunken giggles. Ollie deposited Frankie on one of the beds where she promptly passed out and planned to never mention the incident again.

Frankie mentioned it. The next morning, in fact. She told him she’d meant to call him a cute little fucker, and then they got lunch. The rest, as they say, is history.

Blaine told Ollie about Tyler while they were walking around downtown doing some holiday shopping during winter break. The grey Seattle sky was spitting out a strange mixture of snow and rain, and both boys had nearly fallen on random patches of sidewalk ice. Ollie had been filling his brother in on his fledgling relationship with Frankie, and asked if Blaine had met anyone.

Tyler was a junior, and though Blaine swore there were a dozen other gay kids at school, he and Tyler were the only ones who were officially out. They were just friends, Blaine had said.

“Yeah uh-huh okay, ‘just friends,’ I get it.”

“No! I’m serious Ollie,” Blaine said. “He’s not even my type.”

“So, what is your type, little bro? Maybe I can send a hot college guy your way. Not that I’d be the best judge of hot college guys, but still.”

“Please tell me you’re joking. That’s a joke, right?” Blaine asked. Ollie just shrugged and Blaine rolled his eyes. “I don’t know what my type is, exactly, but it’s not Tyler, that’s for sure.” They both paused to look in some window when Blaine spoke again. “It’s just nice, you know? That he’s there. That he gets it.”

Ollie just nodded and ruffled his brother’s hair. Blaine let out an indignant squawk before turning to look in the same window to try and set his hair back into the perfect part. It’s something Ollie had noticed recently about Blaine: he cared so much more about how he looked than he had ever used to. Like it was a mask of perfection. Blaine’s hair used to be like Ollie’s, a bit shorter but untamed and wild. Now, Ollie watched his brother pull a fucking plastic comb out of nowhere and attempt to re-flatten the Anderson curls. Blaine had used to sort of be like him, and it had sort of been cool, in that semi-annoying younger-brother-trying-to-be-just-like-his-older-brother kind of way. Now here he was wearing a damn pea coat and looking like Cary Grant or Gene Kelly or some other old dead actor.

Ollie looked at himself in the window next to Blaine. Long and messy curls. Thin, loose fitting jeans and a black rain jacket. Too much scruff to be stubble but not enough to be a beard. He honestly looked like a hobo compared to his brother. What an odd sight they must be: a 1950’s poster boy and a bum, walking side-by-side down 5th Ave past all the designer boutiques and looking for the perfect gift for their persnickety mother. 

Blaine patted his hair in the window once more, and they took off back towards the middle of downtown, joking with one another in they way only brothers really could. The next few events happened in such quick succession that Ollie almost missed it all.

It started when someone behind them called “Anderson!” over the sound of harried Christmas shoppers. Ollie turned to look over his shoulder in time to see Blaine’s spine straighten and his jaw tense as he stared determinedly forward. A split second later, a bus rolled over a metal grate in the street with a clang, and this time Blaine’s shoulders hunched and he tucked his head into his chest. They had both stopped walking—Blaine hunched like he was poised for an attack, and Ollie just staring at him with concern—when something all but pounced onto Ollie’s back and he jolted forward a foot or so, which made Blaine shout out and give a violent jump in shock.   

Their attacker turned out just to be Jack, a kid from Ollie’s building with little perception of personal space whom Ollie and Frankie had partied with a few times. The obligatory introductions were made, and Jack left as abruptly as he’d appeared. Blaine’s body had visibly relaxed, but it made no difference. Ollie had seen the fear in his eyes in that second after Jack had called out. He had seen the way Blaine flinched at the metallic clang—much the same clang that a slammed locker made. Had seen him jump when Jack had pounced. 

Not for the first time, Ollie wondered what the hell was going on at his brother’s school.

Blaine got the shit beat out of him a few months later, outside a Sadie Hawkins dance he’d gone to with Tyler. The ringleader got expelled and Ollie’s parents petitioned for a restraining order against the asshole. Blaine had a broken cheek and three cracked ribs. Tyler was just badly bruised all over.

And Ollie felt like shit. Blaine was only fifteen.  He was the younger brother. Ollie was supposed to protect him. He’d had the chance to protect his brother and he’d failed. He’d known Blaine was having problems at school. He hadn’t done anything. He’d let this happen, and as he stood by Blaine’s hospital bed at Harborview (the same hospital they’d all been born in, how ironic) and looked down into his brother’s shattered face, he hated himself as much as he hated those fucking homophobic bastards who’d done the physical damage.  

It took about a year of Frankie yelling at him and some intense sessions with a university psychologist before he was able to shed most of that self-hate. Blaine’s years in high school were hard. He was never physically assaulted again after that boy was expelled, but he’d call Ollie at least three times a week to rant about the rumors and slurs. When he got his license, he’d drive up to the shitty little studio in the U District that Ollie and Frankie had moved into together, and sometimes he’d fall asleep on their couch after sobbing into one of their shoulders about what some little dickhead had said or written on his locker this week. Ollie didn’t know what to do besides be there when Blaine needed him.

When Blaine announced to the family in January of his senior year that he’d be going to NYU in the fall to study English with the intent of becoming a teacher, Ollie wasn’t surprised. Blaine had told him and Frankie the last time he’d crashed on their couch that he just wanted to have a fresh start. You couldn’t get much farther from Seattle than New York City. Their father of course wanted to know what’s wrong with Oxford? Is the Anderson legacy really going to die here? but Blaine was set in his choice, and their parents both grudgingly consented when he explained exactly why.

Ollie tried to spend as much time as he could with Blaine that summer. He and Frankie moved down to a one bedroom in Capitol Hill, less than mile north of their corner on 11th and Pike. When Ollie got off work at the coffee shop, they’d meet up there and do their thing. Reading, playing, singing, whatever. They were just living life.

Then, in mid-August, Blaine left, and it was weird. Ollie tried to hang out with Addie, but she just wasn’t a good replacement for Blaine’s gentle nature. The months crept by, and Ollie would talk to Blaine only about once a week. Ollie got it. Three-hour time differences and work and class schedules were hard to work around when you just wanted to talk.

Blaine wasn’t home for Thanksgiving. No heart to hearts after Chinese takeout.

Blaine wasn’t home for Christmas or New Years. No ganging up with slush balls on Addie or popping crackers in each others’ faces.

It was weird.    

But Blaine was the first person Ollie called after Frankie said yes. A quick calculation told him that it’d be about 8 pm in New York, and Ollie figured he’d probably just be interrupting Blaine in the middle of his homework.

The phone rang five times before Blaine picked up with an exasperated “What?”

“Whoa, hey, no need to get snippy. I just wanted to call and let you know that Frankie and I are getting married.”

“What?! That’s awesome! Congratulations!” Ollie thought he heard another voice asking something along the lines of What’s going on? but couldn’t quite be sure. “Do you guys know when yet?” Blaine continued.

“June 2.”

“June 2…wait, of this year? That’s only a month away!” Now Ollie knew he heard another voice as it said What’s on June 2? because Blaine definitely shushed it.

“Yeah, but we don’t want to wait. Blaine, am I interrupting something?”

“Well, kind of, but this is a big deal! I mean, my brother’s getting married!”

"Your brother…? Blaine, give me the phone.”

"What, why? No! NO! Kurt! Kurt, stop that! Ah, no! Kurt, give it—!”

“This is Oliver, I presume?” said a new and high, yet clearly masculine voice.

“Yeah, I—”

“Okay, well I don’t care if you are Blaine’s brother or if you are getting married. You’re being a major cockblock right now. As in, you calling just blocked my cock from getting sucked. So, congrats on the wedding and everything, but you can call Blaine back in the morning. His first class is at noon. Bye.”

“No, Kurt, don’t hang up the—!”

And then all Ollie got was dial tone.   

And that was Ollie’s first introduction to the elfin spitfire that was Kurt Hummel. 

And Ollie did call back, at 10 o’clock New York time. This time, Blaine picked up on the second ring, and answered with a clearly embarrassed “Hey, Ollie.”

“Hey, dude!” Ollie responded with a good-naturedly teasing tone. “So, what the hell was that last night?”

“That was Kurt.”

“Yeah, I got that, funnily enough. But who the hell is Kurt, and why are you sucking his dick?”

“He’s my boyfriend.”

“What?! Holy shit, man! Why the fuck didn’t you tell me? How long has this been going on?”

“Since October.”

“October? Blaine, that’s…seven months ago! Why am I only hearing about this now?”

“I didn’t want to jinx anything! I really like him, and you know I’m kind of superstitious. You’re the first person I know outside New York who’s found out.”

Ollie stopped at that. Not telling anyone about a new relationship for fear of jinxing it was such a Blaine thing to do. But it had already been seven months, apparently. Surely the relationship gods wouldn’t cause it to crumble now just because Ollie asked a few questions, right?

Ollie told Blaine as much and then, “So tell me about this guy you’re sucking off instead of doing your homework.”

“Oh god. Would you please not say it like that? He’s a design and marketing double-major at FIT.”

“Impressive.”

“Yeah, I know, right? We met in a coffee shop near Washington Square Park and—shut up! I know it’s a bit cliché—and he was reading Faulkner for fun, which is just insane and he just looked so perfect sitting there and I had to talk to him. So I did. We went out to dinner that night, and it just kind of went from there, you know?”

Ollie did know. It was way more of a chance meeting than he and Frankie had had, but he understood needing to seize a relationship with both arms after just one meal.

“Yeah, I know. But I need to know something else. You’re coming to the wedding right? It’s gonna be really small, just family. Frankie’s sister Marta owns this awesome little bookstore, and we’re having it there.”   

“In a bookstore? That’s really weird. And strangely cool.”

“I thought you’d like that.”

“Yeah, it’s awesome. You said June 2, right?”

“Yeah, you get out in, like, two weeks, right?”

“Ten days. Same with Kurt.”

“Sweet, so you can bring him with you!”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, then, “Wait, what?”

“Kurt. The boyfriend you’re apparently giving head to. You can bring him with you. I want to meet him.”

“Would you stop saying stuff like that?!”

“Oh, come on, Blaine. As your older brother I’m well within my rights to tease you mercilessly when I find out you’re no longer a blushing virgin.”

“I’m blushing right now!”

“Not my problem. And just tell him that he has to come with you as payment for giving me mental images of my little brother with a dick in his—”

“Ollie! I don’t pester you about your sex life! Leave mine alone!”

“So you admit to having one, then?”

“What? Of course I admit to it, but that doesn’t mean I want to talk about it with you!”

“Why not? It’s what guys do.” Not guys like Ollie, admittedly, but he was having too much fun to care.

“Not gay guys to straight guys. I’m guessing you want to know about me rimming him like I want to know about you eating Frankie out. Not. At. All.”

“Okay, fair enough, but the both of you are still coming to my wedding. End of story.”

“Fine, but I need to go now. I want to get some food before class.”

“Right, but just let me ask two more things,” Ollie said, and he could hear Blaine take a breath, about to launch into another rant. “It’s not about you having hot gay sex, I promise.”

Blaine let out a huff, then, “Fine. Shoot.”

“Does he know about high school?”

There was a pause then, “Most of it. He had a similar experience. Next question.”

“Are you happy?”

Ollie could hear the smile in Blaine’s voice when he said, “Very,” then hung up.

Two weeks later, Ollie and Frankie had set up a tiny guest-room-like-thing in the weird alcove off the living room in their apartment. It was just a mattress on the floor with two egg-crate nightstands and a thrift store lamp partitioned from the main space by some floor-length curtains Frankie had picked up, but Ollie figured it was better than the pullout couch.

And now here Ollie was, 10 o’clock on a Friday night, waiting in the baggage claim at SeaTac for Blaine and his boyfriend. Blaine had called when they’d landed and told him which carousel their bags would be on, and Frankie had volunteered to wait with the car just outside.

Ollie loved airports. There was something so real and authentic about them. Being able to see people at their most tired and frustrated was such a nice break from the everyday forced smiles and fake cheeriness that people put up. All around him there were teenage girls in sweatpants and hoodies without any make up, middle aged men who’d ditched their suits in favor of jeans. When Blaine appeared out of nowhere and pulled Ollie into a hug, he was no different from the rest: basketball shorts and a thin white tee (hair still perfect, of course) were a far cry from the polo shirts and cardigans Ollie had come to expect from his brother.

And then a young man had sidled up next to them and extended his hand.

“Blaine says I’m to call you ‘Ollie.’ I’m Kurt Hummel. It’s nice to meet you,” he said in a lilting, clear voice. For a second Ollie just looked at the boy, somewhat startled. Kurt was a few inches taller than Blaine, which for some reason wasn’t what Ollie had pictured. He was pale without being pasty, lean without being skeletal, and lanky without being gangly. And his ensemble was perfect—not a hair or thread out of place—dressed to what Ollie would damn well consider the nines.  

“Yeah, Ollie’s good. It’s nice to meet to meet you, too,” he said, finally shaking Kurt’s hand. Blaine, who had been looking between his brother and his boyfriend with wide eyes during Ollie’s somewhat awkward pause, let out a breath and smiled, wrapping his arms around Kurt’s waist from the side. Ollie watched as Kurt’s body seemed to unconsciously mold closer to Blaine’s, and he couldn’t help but smile a little at the sight.

“You know, dude” Ollie started, looking pointedly at Kurt’s outfit. “Blaine told me you’re a fashion student, but you’re only meeting Frankie and me tonight. You didn’t need to dress up. God knows we didn’t,” he said, gesturing to his own jeans and tee.

Kurt smirked a bit, but before he could say anything, Blaine rolled his eyes and said, “He’s not. This is casual for him. Trust me.”

Kurt shot Blaine a look and replied, “Every moment in your life is an opportunity for fashion,” ending with a gracefully arched brow.

“Don’t you give me the Bitch Face!” Blaine said, pushing himself away from Kurt and quite clearly pouting.

“I will give the Bitch Face to whomever I please, Blaine Anderson. Just because I love you does not give you an exemption.”      

And that hit Ollie like a punch in the gut. Kurt had just thrown out the biggest short-word in the English language without a second thought, and he had directed it at Blaine. And Blaine had seemed unfazed by it. Like it was something natural between them. For a moment, Ollie couldn’t breathe as he looked at the two playfully bickering young men. Blaine was in love. It was written all over his face as he looked at Kurt. And Ollie was just so fucking happy for him.

The loud buzz from the carousel starting up startled all three of them, and as they shuffled toward the conveyor belt, Blaine leaned toward Ollie and stage whispered in his ear, “I should warn you, he brought three bags.”

“Fashion, Blaine!” Kurt said as he lugged a large suitcase off the belt. “How many times do I have to tell you? We’re staying here for five weeks. I have to be prepared. I’ve never been farther west than Illinois; I don’t know what it’s like out here!”

Blaine rolled his eyes again and kissed Kurt on the cheek before grabbing his own, solitary duffle bag.

“You know,” he said, “if you’d needed anything, Nordstrom’s is literally within walking distance of their apartment. Granted it’s, like, a mile and a half, and the trip back is up a killer hill, but that’s what the bus is for.”

“Oh I plan on shopping, don’t worry,” Kurt explained as Ollie helped him haul off a fucking trunk. “That’s why this trunk is only half full, and it’s why I didn’t bring a carry on.”

“This thing is only half-full?” Ollie asked. “It weighs a goddamn ton!”

“It’s got his shoes in it,” Blaine said.

Five minutes later, Kurt was pushing the trunk on a dolly and Blaine and Ollie were each towing a rolling suitcase as they headed out the automatic doors towards the station wagon. Frankie jumped out of the driver’s seat and launched herself at Blaine, causing him to drop the suitcase and duffle as she wrapped her tiny legs and arms around his torso. He caught her and laughed as she shrieked out a greeting along the lines of, “You little shit, why the fuck didn’t you tell us you had a fucking boyfriend?!”

Kurt looked startled by the outburst, and Ollie laughed, tossing an arm around the boy’s shoulder and explaining that Frankie just had a really foul mouth, and then, “She’ll try and tell you it’s mild Tourette’s, but really she’s just rude.”

“Fuck you, Ollie!”

“Love you too, babe!”

As Blaine helped Ollie try to Tetris Kurt’s bags into the back of the station wagon, Frankie introduced herself to Kurt, who still seemed like he didn’t quite know what to do with her.

Ollie drove on the way back to the apartment, and Frankie chatted Blaine’s boyfriend up the whole way. Kurt was from small town Ohio, but he’d had big city dreams since he was a little kid. He’d come to New York with a good friend (a “Jewish-American princess with an entitlement complex,” were the exact words Ollie thought he heard) who was at Tisch at NYU. He’d been waiting for her to show up at the coffee shop when Blaine had approached him. Apparently, he’d never had a boyfriend before Blaine, which Ollie found oddly endearing, and he was glad that his brother had found someone as inexperienced as he was. They could learn from each other this way.

Frankie’s reaction to Kurt’s lack of a prior love life was more direct. “What the fuck?” she said, “but you’re hot!”

“Whoa! Not cool, babe!” Ollie said, only slightly stung. At the same moment, he looked in the rearview mirror and saw a possessive look pass over Blaine’s face as he put a hand on Kurt’s knee. Kurt smirked and patted Blaine’s cheek.

“I’m speaking purely objectively, Ollie. I mean, that jaw line could cut glass.”

“Well, objectively or not, stop it,” Blaine told her. “I have enough to deal with fighting guys off when we go to clubs. The last thing I need is a straight girl going for him, too.”

Kurt let out a very undignified snort, saying, “Oh, shut up Blaine! You have no right to complain about straight girls looking at me. You’re the one with the legions of fangirls.”

“Fangirls? What is this?” Ollie teased, making eye contact with his little brother in the rearview.   

“It’s nothing,” Blaine said, blushing. Now it was Kurt rolling his eyes.

“He goes busking near the Washington Square Arch every Saturday,” Kurt said. “The same group of giggling little teenie-boppers is there every week. I can’t blame them though. He’s a very gifted musician.”  

“Well, it doesn’t matter, because they’re not my type.”

“If they don’t matter then why does your sister-in-law matter?”

“Because she’s my sister-in-law!”

“HEY LOOK, GUYS! WE’RE HERE!” Frankie shouted, making both boys in the backseat jump and Ollie laugh. He loved her exuberance.

By 11:30, Blaine and Kurt had settled in their weird little guest-nook and were sitting at the kitchen table nursing pre-bed cups of coffee. Kurt’s perfect posture had gone, and he was now slumped sideways onto Blaine’s shoulder, eyes drooping. It seemed that they were still running on Eastern Time. Frankie eventually excused herself to shower, and then Ollie turned to his brother and the sagging boyfriend.

“Some ground rules,” he started. Kurt looked up blearily and Blaine blinked and furrowed his eyebrows, mouthing ground rules? but Ollie plowed on. “First, if you’re gonna do any stupid shit, do it here. No wandering around wasted. Second, Frankie and I still have to go to work during the week, so if you’re gonna go out during the day, just fire off one of us a quick text, okay? Or at least leave a note or something. That’s it. Blaine knows this neighborhood pretty well, so you should be fine.” Ollie stood, grabbing the three empty mugs and putting them in the sink before another thought hit him. “Oh, and that gay club down on Broadway? They’re open ‘til four in the morning, but their liquor license only lets them serve booze ‘til two, so they let minors in then. You mentioned something about clubbing in the car.”

Blaine nodded slowly and Ollie smiled at the expression on his face. He always reminded Ollie of a puppy when he got tired.

“Well, it’s late, and you guys had a long flight, so I’m gonna let you get to bed. Night!”

When Ollie walked down the hall and into his and Frankie’s room, he saw that she was just turning down the quilt, her short brown hair still wet. Ollie stripped to his boxers and crawled into bed next to her. She snuggled up to his side, and he pressed a soft kiss to her lips when she looked up at him. Outside the room, he could hear Blaine and Kurt talking softly in their nook. Frankie sighed and nuzzled his neck.

“I like your brother’s boyfriend,” she whispered. “He deserves to be happy.”

Ollie hummed in agreement and stared at the ceiling as he felt Frankie’s breath against his chest even out. He was just about to drift off himself when he heard it. A giggle. Definitely a giggle. Coming from the guest nook. Shit.

There were more giggles followed by shushes followed by grunts and moans that Ollie tried his very hardest not to hear and eventually, much to Ollie’s horror, what sounded like slapping skin. About half an hour after the first giggle, Ollie heard a low groan and his brother’s voice croaking out, “oh, shit!” Some more giggles, and then silence.

As Ollie stared at the ceiling in shock—shock because his little brother had just had sex in his living room—he noticed by Frankie’s breathing that she’d woken up.

“Well. That was awkward,” he whispered to her.

Ollie felt more than saw her shrug as she said, “Oh well. They’re staying with us after the wedding. We’ll just have to have loud kinky newlywed sex as payback.”     

Ollie snorted and kissed her forehead before drifting off.

The next morning, Ollie was sure to mention to Blaine and Kurt exactly how thin the walls inside the apartment were, and both boys had the decency to blush to the tips of their ears.

The next few days were a blur as Ollie, Blaine and Frankie guided Kurt to the usual Seattle tourist traps. He’d initially been enchanted by the craft stalls at Pike Place, picking up a trinket here and there for friends back home, but any fond feelings he may have felt for the market seemed to disappear when a twelve pound dead tuna whizzed by within a foot of his unsuspecting face. He’d smacked Blaine’s shoulder and shot Ollie and Frankie the look Blaine had called the Bitch Face when the three of them doubled over laughing at his shocked expression. The Space Needle had gone off better. Ollie watched as Kurt came up behind Blaine, wrapped his arms around his waist, and rested his chin on Blaine’s shoulder as they looked out at Elliott Bay. He turned away to give them some semblance of privacy when Blaine shifted in Kurt’s arms and kissed him right there.

And it hit Ollie again. Blaine was so more comfortable with Kurt than he’d ever been before. Here they were: just blocks way from the place downtown where only a few years ago Ollie was sure Blaine had suffered from some mild episode of PTSD or something when some kid that Ollie went to school with jumped out to say hi. And now here Blaine was: kissing his boyfriend gently in one of the most public places in the city. When did that happen?

Ollie and Frankie returned to work on Monday, Ollie to the coffee shop up Broadway from their apartment, and Frankie at the SAM. It’s not really where either of them had pictured themselves. Ollie was going to head to LA and make music. Frankie was going to come with him and make genius paintings and screenprints that spoke about important social issues. But her senior internship at the SAM had turned into a full-time job offer, so they stayed. Ollie still wrote music, and he played at the coffee shop he worked at a few nights a week. And they were happy. That was what mattered.

Ollie wasn’t entirely sure what Blaine took Kurt to do that week (he liked to think they were just going around to the old haunts he and Blaine used to frequent), but each time he passed their nook he’d see another book stacked on the left-side egg crate or another bag from some boutique standing next to Kurt’s fucking trunk.

And then it was Friday again, the day before the wedding, and Ollie had gotten off early to get ready for dinner at his parents’ house. He climbed the three sets of stairs and heard her laugh before he even reached the door to the apartment.

He shut the door behind him and walked down the small hallway to the living room and was greeted by the sight of Blaine on his back on the floor, fighting off their now fifteen-year-old sister as she sat/lay/sprawled on top of him. Kurt just sat on the couch, legs crossed and laughing.

“Addie. What are you doing here?” Ollie asked. “I thought mom and dad didn’t like you coming down here.”

“They don’t,” she said, and Blaine grunted as she elbowed him in the gut. “But I told them that since B is staying with you guys that they had to let me come. They only gave in today.”          

“I opened the door and she attacked me!” Blaine growled as he tried to bring a leg up to knee Addie off his stomach. She frowned down at him and poked him hard in the ribs. “Ow! Damn it, Addie!”

“I haven’t seen you in almost a year, B! I’m allowed to show you some sisterly affection.”

“This is affection?” Kurt asked, arching a brow.

Ollie plopped down on the couch next to him. “For her it is,” he said. “Addie’s always been the roughest out of the three of us.” Kurt just continued to watch his boyfriend wrestle with his eyebrow raised. “What,” Ollie asked, “didn’t you ever wrestle with your siblings?”

“I haven’t got any,” Kurt said. “Well, I mean I do. But Finn’s just my stepbrother. My dad married his mom when we both juniors. We love each other like brothers, and we’d do anything for each other, but it’s different, I think. We didn’t grow up together.” Ollie nodded as he reached a foot out to shove at Addie’s side. She gave a squawk and overbalanced, toppling off of Blaine’s torso and onto the floor. Blaine scrambled to his feet and sat on Kurt’s lap.

“What are you doing?” Kurt asked. “I’m not going to protect you, you know. I was enjoying the show.” Blaine just shrugged.

“Eh, she’s done anyway,” Ollie said, getting to his feet. “See that look on her face? It means she admits defeat. Put that finger down, Addie. I’m not going to have mom and dad thinking I’m an even worse influence on you than they already thought. I’m going to take a shower, and when I get back, I want to see you having a civilized conversation with Blaine and Kurt, got it?”

“Yes, dad. Jeezus.”

When he reentered the living room a half hour later, he saw that Frankie had come home and was in the kitchen putting the finishing touches on the salad Ollie’s mother had instructed them to bring. Blaine had shifted to sitting next to Kurt, who was now curled into Blaine’s side, and Addie was sitting upside-down in the armchair across from the couch, firing questions at Kurt.

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Dior gray.”

“When’s your birthday?”

“February.”

“Favorite season and why?”

“Winter. Fashionable layers.”

“Favorite designer?”

“Impossible question.”

Ollie shot Blaine a questioning look, mouthing how long? as he made his way to the kitchen to help his fiancée. Blaine mouthed back whole time.

“Favorite sport?”

“…Shopping?”

“Do you top or does B?”

“And that’s where this stops,” Blaine interrupted, loudly. “What is it with my siblings and asking inappropriate questions about my sex life?” Ollie cleared his throat and Blaine blushed as Kurt buried his face in his neck. “Never mind.”

Seven minutes later found them all piled in the station wagon and pulling out onto the street. Frankie reached out and grabbed Ollie’s right hand off the steering-wheel, lacing her fingers with his and bringing his hand up for a kiss. He could feel the cool metal of her ring against his hand and smiled.

“We’re fucking getting married tomorrow,” she said. Ollie just smiled and squeezed her hand. “And just think,” she continued, “in a few years it could be our kids arguing in the backseat.”

Ollie barked out a laugh and glanced in the rearview. Addie had situated herself in the middle of the backseat, forcing Kurt and Blaine into the window seats. Kurt held the salad in his lap and watched as Blaine glared and loudly called his sister a brat and threatened that when she got a boyfriend, he would be sure to embarrass her in every way possible. To which she responded by even more loudly proclaiming that she’d already had a boyfriend, and they’d gone out for three weeks. Blaine told her that wasn’t a real relationship and that he’d wait until she fell in love for real, because then he’d be doing the same thing to her that she was doing to him (Ollie’s heart clenched again at Blaine now throwing around that big small-word). Addie punched Blaine in the shoulder. Blaine slapped the back of Addie’s head. And then they were in front of the brick colonial in Madrona and Frankie was shouting, “Shut the fuck up! We’re here!” 

They piled out and Ollie lifted the salad out of Kurt’s arms. Blaine quickly filled the now empty hands with his own. Addie raced up the front steps with Frankie and Ollie close behind. Ollie thought he heard Kurt ask something like, “You grew up here?” to which Blaine merely chuckled and pulled his boyfriend inside.

Ollie was greeted in the foyer by his mother who took the salad, handed it to Addie, kissed his cheek, and made a snide comment about his beardish thing, really Oliver, can’t you at least shave for your own wedding? Then she gave a hug to Frankie and turned to her younger son.

“Oh, Blaine,” she sighed, smiling sadly. “Darling, it’s been forever.” She gave him a tight hug, which he returned. “You mustn’t stay away for so long. I know New York is a long ways away, but it would have been lovely to have you home for Christmas.”

“I know,” Blaine said into her hair. “I forgot how much I like it here.” He pulled away and glanced at Kurt, who’d been hovering awkwardly near Ollie’s elbow. Ollie could almost feel the nervous energy rolling off the boy. Then Ollie looked up as he heard footsteps coming down the stairs, and saw his father’s eyes linger over the tall, pale boy next to him. Their father and Blaine shared a similar embrace and then Blaine squared his shoulders.

“Mom, Dad,” Blaine said, “I’d like to introduce you to someone.” He held out his hand to Kurt, who seemed to have frozen. Frankie gave him a not-so-little shove and he stumbled forward a bit to take Blaine’s hand. “This is Kurt Hummel. My boyfriend. I met him at school, and we’ve been together since October.”

The entire room seemed to be holding its breath, waiting as Mr. and Mrs. Anderson—whoa, tomorrow that would be him and Frankie—looked slightly shocked and processed the information.

And then, to Ollie’s great surprise, Mr. Anderson smiled a genuine smile and shook Kurt’s hand. “It’s wonderful to meet you, Kurt.”

“It’s nice to meet you, too, sir.”

Later that night, when Ollie was helping his dad with the dishes and his mom and brother and Kurt were chatting about something outside Ollie’s interests, Mr. Anderson confessed that they’d never really had a problem with Blaine being gay. They honestly just hadn’t known what to say.

The next day, as Ollie and Frankie sat—officially married—at the head of the long table that had been erected in the middle of Marta’s bookstore and surrounded by their families, Frankie squeezed his hand and nodded down the table. Kurt had wiped a stripe of frosting down Blaine’s nose, and Blaine was laughing and trying to do the same. Ollie looked at his new wife and smiled before giving her a long and soft kiss.

“Maybe in a few years,” she said as they pulled back, “we’ll be flying to New York to see another Anderson boy get married.”

Ollie smiled. “I hope so.”