“Chazz Donaldsworth? Who's Chazz Donaldsworth?”

Kurt, sitting on his bed, sorting through his sheet music with his back to his bedroom door, hears his father say the name of his alter ego from his night at Scandals, and freezes.

“Uh…wha-hmm?” Kurt makes a noncommittal, incoherent noise in reply, in the hopes that his father will figure it's a mistake, something that ended up on Kurt's desk by accident that he knows nothing about, and drop the subject.

“Kurt” – Burt takes a step inside Kurt's room – “what is this?”

Kurt sighs. No such luck. In retrospect, he shouldn't have left it out on his desk where anyone could find it. It would have been blackmail material for sure if Finn had been passing by and seen it, and not his father.

Kurt doesn't answer right away, trying to gauge the severity of the situation by the tone of concern and disappointment in his father's voice.

He rates it about a 7, possibly and 7.5.

“Kurt, is this I.D. yours?”

“Uh…” Kurt finally turns to face his father, staring down at the fake driver's license in his hand, squinting at the fuzzy picture of a man who's definitely not Kurt.

“It doesn't even look like you.”

“I know,” Kurt says, defeated, realizing that Sebastian probably chose the I.D. specifically for that ridiculous picture in the hopes that Kurt wouldn't get in. Luckily, it didn't seem to matter to the melancholy bouncer working the door at the time.

“Kurt, having a fake I.D. is illegal.”

“I know,” Kurt repeats. He wishes he had a better response, a more dignified way of defending himself, but it seems that's unfortunately not to be. This is turning into one of those conversations where his father tells him all the things he should have known, and Kurt admits that he knew them, then broke the rules regardless.

“What would you need a fake I.D. for anyway?”

Kurt sees an opportunity to inject levity, and gives it a shot.

“Would you believe me if I told you I got it so I could vote?”

His father's shoulders sink. He sighs, unamused.

Nope, Kurt thinks. Wrong move.

“Kurt…”

“No, no, I'm sorry. That was a bad joke,” Kurt says apologetically. He's caught between a rock and a hard place, not because the decision to discuss this with his father is a difficult one. He'd like to be able to tell his dad everything that's going on in his life – the good and the bad. It's difficult because it's a bit embarrassing how badly his plan to be spontaneous, to do something unexpected and exciting (and possibly show up Sebastian Smythe in the process) backfired. Not only was he not Blaine's gay bar superstar, but Blaine spent most of his night drinking, and dancing with another guy (namely Sebastian Smythe). And then there was that awful incident in the back seat of his Navigator. The whole night was a mess that he really would rather forget, and it all started with him agreeing to let Sebastian get them those stupid fake I.D.s. So explaining to his dad why he got the fake I.D. in the first place might turn into recounting the events of one of his most disastrous decisions to date, and he can't do that. Not just yet. “I used it to go out with some friends” - He tries to stop the explanation there, but his father crosses his arms and looks at him with a stern glare, and Kurt knows his dad's not buying that that's the whole story – “to a bar. But I didn't drink anything. I swear. I just…wanted to get in.”

His father shifts on his feet, taking a glance down at the I.D., then back at Kurt when he's considered what his son said.

“You didn't do this to impress Blaine, did you?” his father asks. “This wasn't his idea, was it?” Kurt pictures the thoughts that must be entering his father's mind at this moment – thoughts of Blaine, a shotgun, a shovel, and that soft patch of dirt in the rose bed outside.

“No,” Kurt says quickly. “No, it was…no. A friend brought it up.” Kurt revolts at the thought of having called Sebastian Smythe a friend, and recants. “An acquaintance…from Dalton…and I was the one who agreed. Blaine just went along with it.”

His father nods, the look of disappointment becoming more prevalent before it dissolves away, and his father just looks tired.

“Well, you know, you're growing up,” his father says with less of the usual discomfort. Having two teenaged boys in the house has helped to numb him to some of the more unsavory parts of, well, raising teenaged boys, “and that means, of course, making your own decisions. In the end, you're the one who's going to have to take responsibility for your actions, and this one” – Burt holds up the I.D. for emphasis – “was not one of your better ones.”

“I know, Dad,” Kurt says, “I know. It was peer pressure, and it was stupid, and I promise, it won't happen again.”

“Good,” Burt says. “Because you don't want anything standing in your way on your road to Broadway, including an arrest record.”

“True,” Kurt says, feeling safe to try his hand at another joke, “though if I had gotten arrested, it might have made a great anecdote for my first Good Morning America interview.”

A second of tension hangs in the air. Kurt fears his timing might have been off on that one, but then his father smiles and shakes his head, and all is right between them again.

“Great,” he says. “So, I'm guessing we can…”

“Pitch it,” Kurt says with a wave of his hand. “Cut it up into a hundred pieces. I never want to see it again.”

“Alright then,” Burt says, pocketing the I.D. to take it with him. “And Kurt…thank you for telling me the truth.”

Kurt smiles at his father, proud at them for getting over this obstacle, conquering this turning point, both still alive to tell the tale. He might have thought it impossible after that equally embarrassing incident when Kurt's father found a hungover Blaine waking up in his bed. But now, Kurt feels like they can overcome anything.

“Thanks for talking to me about it.”

Kurt gets up off his bed to hug his father, and Burt closes the distance to hug his son.

It was one of those discussions Kurt had never expected, but now Kurt wishes it had happened sooner.

***

“Hey, squirt. What's the whoa-ho-ho! What do we have here?”

Blaine, curled up in misery on his bed, having finished his third glass of water and his fifth round of Tylenol, pops his head up too quickly when he hears his brother crow with glee at something he's found on Blaine's desk. Blaine's muddy brain, wedged too tightly inside his throbbing skull, does a quick assessment of the items on his desk to try and figure out what it might be.

His Calculus homework? No.

His new red-and-green plaid bowtie? Not likely.

The Sweating to the Oldies DVD he borrowed from Kurt? Possibly.

Condoms? Nope. They're stowed away in his bottom drawer, and, after what he tried to pull last night with Kurt, probably permanently.

So what could Cooper be…oh no!

“Cooper!” Blaine bolts off the bed, his stomach threatening to heave stale beer all over his carpet. As long as he hits Cooper's shoes, he's not sure he cares at this point. “Give me…give me that!” He reaches for the illicit object in his big brother's hand, but in signature Cooper Anderson fashion, his taller sibling very maturely plays keep away with it.

“This says you're 38” - Cooper laughs, both at the horrendous fake I.D., and at his squirrely younger brother, obviously hung over, leaping up and down trying to get it back – “and it looks terrible! Where the hell did you get this?”

“A (grunt) friend (grunt) got it for me (grunt).”

“Kurt?” Cooper guesses, genuinely shocked. Cooper hasn't had the chance to really say more than three sentences to the guy, but from what Blaine says, he doesn't seem like the type.

“No!” Blaine says, giving up when the world takes a sharp turn left and he veers right, afraid that another jump might jettison him off the edge. “Someone else.” Blaine puts his hands on his knees and bends at the waist, breathing in deep to keep the contents of his stomach in place. “He got one for Kurt, too. You should see his. It's worse.”

Cooper looks at his brother, then at the fake driver's license in his hand, and suddenly, his mood changes.

“Blaine,” he says solemnly, “to be honest, I'm shocked.”

The serious tone in his brother's voice makes Blaine pause. He looks up at Cooper, staring down at him, his face blank, but his eyes clouded with maybe a touch of hurt.

“Cooper,” Blaine starts, not knowing how to finish, “I…”

“If you were considering doing something like this” – Cooper toys with the I.D., flipping it over, examining it from all sides – “something boneheaded and illegal, something that could ruin your entire life, why wouldn't you talk to me about it first?”

“I…I'm sorry, Cooper.” Blaine straightens, the fear of nausea passing as a new feeling of confusion takes its place. It feels weird apologizing to Cooper, especially over something like this. He didn't think he had this kind of relationship with his older brother, where something like getting a fake I.D. – a typical and common teenage rite of passage – would affect the man so. If Blaine had only known…but Cooper never seemed all that interested in the minutiae of Blaine's life. It would have been nice to have his big brother to talk to about this. Maybe then, last night, things would have turned out differently. “I…it all happened so fast. And I really didn't want you knowing that I was getting a fake I.D. It was stupid, I know, and…”

“You're damn right this is stupid,” Cooper says, taking Blaine's hand with a stern look and pulling him out of his room, “and we're going to fix it right now.”

“Coop?” Blaine asks in a panic, tugging at the hand locked in his. “Coop, what are you doing? Where are you…where are we going?”

“We're going to do something about this, Blaine,” Cooper says in a parental tone. “This is unacceptable.”

“Oh my God,” Blaine says, thinking of the only place they could be heading as Cooper drags him down the hall. “Please,” Blaine pleads, “Please, don't tell mom!”

Cooper stops short, a foot from their mom's room, and laughs.

“Squirt!” he says in mock offense. “I'm not going to rat you out to mom.” He continues walking, with Blaine stumbling behind as they head for the front door. “I know some people. I'm going to order you up a new one of these. This one's awful!” He takes a last scathing look at the driver's license, then shoves it in his pocket. “And get Kurt on the phone. We might as well fix his, too. Can't have you both ending up behind bars, you crazy kids.”