Disclaimer: Glee belongs to Ryan Murphy and Fox, not me. Lilo and Stitch belongs to Chris Sanders and Disney.


I'm late, I'm late, I'm late, Blaine thought frantically. Wes is going to kill me.

He scrambled into the back door of the community center, his small damp hand slipping on the handle, and ran inside. His sneakers squelched loudly as he ran down the hallway, struggling to pull on his uniform shirt and vest as he went. He dumped his backpack on the floor outside the backstage door, pausing just long enough to kick off his sneakers and slide into his loafers without bothering with socks, and tiptoed inside.

The other Hatchlings were already rehearsing their newest number, hopping from side to side and snapping their fingers. All of them were neatly dressed in their choir uniform- gray shorts, navy vests, white shirts, striped ties, white knee socks, and black loafers- and they all harmonized easily with one boy at the front leading them. Blaine frowned. Wes got the solo again, he thought glumly.

He snuck forward, edging towards the back of the group before sliding into his usual place. No one noticed him or stopped the music to scold him, and with a pleased grin he joined in with the other Hatchlings, singing with all of his little heart.

They were almost at the big finish when Wes suddenly yelped and slipped backwards in a puddle of water, landing squarely on David. Both boys tumbled down; Blaine hopped out of the way before he got bowled himself. The a capella song died away as the choir of elementary school boys started hollering and yelling at each other, half of them sprawled on the floor.

"Boys, boys," their choir director called, bounding onto the stage. Will pulled Wes up by the back of his vest and helped David to his feet. "Stop it."

"I'm never going to be a Warbler if we can't even rehearse properly," Wes whined.

"You're only seven," David pointed out. "You can't be a Warbler until you're in high school." Wes rolled his eyes.

Will sighed. "Blaine, why are you all wet?" he asked. "You're dripping all over the stage."

Blaine pushed back his wet curls. "It's sandwich day," he said. "Every Thursday I have to take Pudge the fish a peanut butter sandwich."

Will raised an eyebrow. "Pudge is a fish?" he said.

"And today we were out of peanut butter," Blaine explained.

Jeff snickered and Nick elbowed him sharply. Will sighed and squatted down to Blaine's eye level. "You're not making much sense, buddy," he said.

Blaine tangled his hands together behind his back and rubbed the back of his ankle with the top of his other foot. "We didn't have peanut butter, right? So I asked my sister what to give him, and she said a tuna sandwich," he said. "I can't give Pudge tuna! Don't you know what tuna is?"

"Fish?" Will guessed.

"It's fish!" Blaine said, dropping his hands. "If I gave Pudge tuna, I'd be an abomination! He'd be a cannibal!" He sighed heavily. "I'm late because I had to go to the store and get a new jar of peanut butter 'cause all we have is…is tuna!"

"Blaine, I don't understand," Will said. "Why…why do you need to feed Pudge a peanut butter sandwich?"

Blaine blinked. "Pudge controls the weather," he said.

The other boys stared at him for a second. Will rubbed the back of his neck, obviously trying to summon up some kind of response. "You're crazy," Wes said flatly.

Blaine scowled, his eyebrows drawing down, and leaped at Wes, pulling at his hair and his neatly-tied tie. Wes shrieked, kicking and punching back, but Blaine was too fast. He sank his sharp little teeth into Wes's arm, making the other boy howl in pain.

Will grabbed Blaine around the waist and hoisted him physically off the ground. "That's enough!" he said, setting Blaine aside. He helped Wes up and patted at the bite marks on his arm. "Boys, calm down." He sighed heavily. "Blaine…"

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Blaine exclaimed quickly, hopping back. "I won't do it again. I'm sorry."

Will patted Wes's back. "I think we should call your sister, buddy," he said.

"No! I'll be good!" Blaine protested. "I'll be on my best behavior. I want to sing." He swallowed hard. "I practiced. I just want to sing. I practiced."

Will shook his head. "I think you'd better go wait on the steps," he said.

Blaine's shoulders drooped. He slunk away through the wings, keenly aware of the other boys staring at him. His things were still scattered helter-skelter across the floor; reluctantly he picked up his clothes and shoes as he changed back out of his choir uniform and packed his backpack.

He slipped out through the back hallway and went to sit obediently on the steps like he'd been told. The Ohio summer afternoon was hot and humid. He sat with his chin in his hands, watching the people and cars go by. Once again, he was by himself. He didn't think he liked it.

His little wristwatch chimed four o'clock, and the other boys poured out of the auditorium doors and onto the sidewalks, all of them chatting and laughing. Will stepped up and patted his shoulder. "I called your sister," he said. "She said for you to wait here till she can pick you up." He squeezed Blaine's shoulder. "We'll try again next week, okay?"

Will disappeared back into the community center. Blaine sighed heavily, his rapidly drying curls ruffling in the breeze. In the distance he could see the other boys heading down the sidewalk, and suddenly he bolted off the hot concrete steps and jogged after them, his backpack bouncing on his shoulders.

Wes clutched a big Power Ranger figure in one hand and held out his arm for the other boys to see. "Does this look infected to you?" he inquired, scrutinizing the little red puncture marks in his skin. David nodded.

"You better not have rabies," Nick warned.

Jeff hopped anxiously from one foot to the other. "If you have rabies, the dogcatcher is going to have to cut your whole arm off!" he said cheerfully.

Blaine approached them shyly. "Are you guys going to play?" he asked.

The other boys hopped back in surprise, hiding their Power Rangers and GI Joes and Transformers behind their backs. "You don't have any action figures, though," Jeff said. Nick elbowed him again.

"I kind of do," Blaine said. He fumbled in his backpack and pulled out a soft, floppy, shapeless doll. "This is Scrump. Francey made him for me!" He petted the toy's tummy. "His head is too big for his body, though because Francey doesn't sew very well. So I pretend that he-"

He looked up to see that the boys were gone.

Blaine glanced around to see if maybe they were just hiding or something, but no. They were gone. He could hear them laughing down the street.

He looked down at the limp plushie in his arms and glared at it. "Why can't you be like everyone else?" he accused. With a vicious jerk he threw it to the ground and stomped away.

But he only took a few steps before he glanced back at poor discarded little Scrump lying on the pavement and he ran back. "I'm sorry," he whispered as he scooped his beloved little stuffed animal in his arms, brushed the asphalt scruff away, and kissed it between the lopsided ears.

He ran down the sidewalk towards his house, still clutching Scrump to his chest. His house wasn't that far from the town of Westerville, but it was on the outskirts, near the lake. When he was little, he loved living right next to the pretty blue lake right in the middle of the trees. But that was when his mommy and daddy had been alive. Now it was just him and his sister, and now they just seemed far away from everything in their ramshackle old house.

He ran up the creaky front steps, skipping over the middle broken one, and grabbed his house key off his lanyard. The door slammed behind him and he whirled around to stare at it.

"Francey's gonna kill me for going home by myself," he said aloud. He could just imagine his older sister freaking out when she realized he was gone. She'd probably yell. And Francey yelling was scary.

Hastily Blaine snatched up a hammer and nails lying around from Francey's latest home-improvement experiment (trying to build a new bookshelf; it was too crooked to keep anything up and only one shelf was in) and nailed the front door shut.

Satisfied with his handiwork, he looked around the empty living room and frowned. Now he was alone, but he was still lonely. He dragged out his mom's old record player and slid one of her favorite old Elvis records, then carefully turned it on. When he was little, his mother used to chide him for trying to play the records, since he usually scratched them, but Francey didn't care. He laid down on the living room floor and folded his hands on his stomach, closing his eyes as Elvis crooned in his ear.

He was half asleep and considering crawling upstairs to take a nap in Francey's bed when he heard a pounding on the door. "Blaine!" Francey hollered. "Blaine, open this door!"

"Go away," he called.

"Blaine, we don't have time for this!" Francey shouted.

He glanced towards the door. "Leave me alone to die," he said morosely.

Francey stuck her head through the doggie door, glaring fiercely as her long curls snagged on his makeshift nailing job. "Come on, Blaine, the social worker's going to be here any minute!" she said.

He sighed. Francey huffed and started prying at the nails. "I am going to stuff you in a blender, push puree, and bake you in a pie and feed you to the social work," she threatened. "And when she says 'mm, this is great, what's your secret?' I'm going to say-"

Francey suddenly vanished out of the doggie door as if someone had yanked her away. "Love," he heard her say sweetly. "And…nurturing."

He propped himself up on his elbows, trying to listen. Suddenly he heard Francey's rapid footsteps behind him as she pushed open the back door and cut through the kitchen. She nudged the record player with her foot as she ran, kicking the needle off its path. "Hey!" he protested. She ignored him and darted back into the kitchen, throwing the back door wide open.

The social worker stood in the doorway, a tall angular woman with blonde hair and a skeptical expression. Blaine sat up. She didn't look very welcoming. "So," Francey said, slightly out of breath. "Lemonade?"

The social worker stepped inside. "So, you often leave your little brother at home, unsupervised, with possibly dangerous tools around?" she said skeptically

Blaine stood up slowly and peeked around the doorway. "No, never," Francey lied. "Well, you know. Except for now. I had to run to the store to get some-"

The social worker glanced around the kitchen, raising an eyebrow at the overheated stove. Francey darted to shut it off. "So you left the stove on while you ran out," the social worker said. "Potential fire hazards, check…"

"Just on low heat. You know. To simmer," Francey said. She glanced over and caught sight of Blaine. "Blaine! There you are." She took him by the shoulders and propelled him towards the social worker. "Blaine, Babbie, honeyface, this is the social worker."

"Sue Sylvester," she said, jutting out her chin.

He held out his hand. "Pleasure to meet you," he said politely. "My name is Blaine Anderson."

She glanced down. "I don't shake hands with small children," she said. "They're usually sticky, and I don't enjoy that." Blaine hastily withdrew his hand, not bothering to argue.

"You don't look like a social worker," he said. Francey shook her head at him.

"I'm a special classification," Sue Sylvester said. "I'm specially trained for dangerous circumstances."

Blaine tilted his head to the side. "Have you ever killed anyone?" he inquired.

Sue Sylvester looked down at him. "We're getting off the subject," she said.

"But you didn't answer my-"

"Let's talk about you," the social worker interrupted. "Are you happy? Not that I care, but the higher-ups want to know."

Blaine offered her a charming smile. "I'm adjusted," he said. "I eat four food groups a day and look both ways before crossing the street and I take long naps and I see my therapist every Monday."

"Therapist, huh?" Sue Sylvester said. "A kid as young as you has to go listen to all that namby-pamby 'how does that make you feel?' crap?"

Francey tugged Blaine closer, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. "He took our parents' death really hard," she said, almost defensively.

"No need to get worked up, princess poodle hair," Sue Sylvester said. "How do you pay those bills?"

"We manage," Francey said stiffly. "We were supposed to inherit our trust funds, but our uncle won't sign them over."

"Francey says we're poor," Blaine offered, trying to helpful. "We weren't poor when Daddy and Mama were alive, though."

Francey stiffened. "Okay, that's enough sugar for you," she said, giving him a push back towards the living room. "Why don't you run along and play, you little cutie."

He looked back and frowned at her as she pushed him out of the kitchen. Instead of obeying, he hid behind the doorway to listen in. "The other social workers thought he was a scream," Francey said, half-apologetic. "He's so little and dapper…"

"All right, let's cut the crap," Sue Sylvester said flatly. "I don't think you understand the precarious position in which you find yourself. You see, I'm the one they call when things go wrong. And trust me, Curls McGee, things have gone very, very wrong."

He ducked into the living room as Sue Sylvester strode out of the kitchen. She paused long enough to hand him a business card with her name and cellphone number on it. "Call me next time you're left home alone," she said.

"Thank you," he said politely, tucking the card in the back pocket of his shorts.

Francey followed Sue Sylvester to the door, hastily yanking the door open and scattering Blaine's poorly hammered nails across the carpet. "In case you were wondering, this did not go well," she informed Francey. "You have three days to change my mind."

"Thank you, we'll be in touch," Francey said sweetly. She closed the front door, then whipped around and glared at Blaine.

"Don't kill me!" Blaine shrieked, scrambling away.

Francey grabbed him by the back of his tee shirt. "You were supposed to wait at the community center!" she scolded. "You were supposed to wait there!" He clamped his lips shut and she gave him a firm shake. "Blaine!"

He gritted his teeth. She grabbed his chin and forced him to look at her. "Do you not understand? Do you want to be taken away from me, is that it?" she demanded. "Answer me!"

"No!" he yelped.

"No, you don't understand?"

"No!"

"No, what?"

"No!"

She gave him another frustrated little shake as he went limp in her grip. "You're such a pain!" she said.

"So why don't you sell me and buy a rabbit instead?" he taunted as he wriggled out of her grasp.

"At least it would behave better than you!" she retorted.

He pulled away and scrambled on his hands and knees. "Go ahead!" he yelled. "Then you'll be happy because it'll be smarter than me too!"

"And quieter, don't forget quieter!" Francey shouted. "If I have to hear you sing those damn choir songs one more time, I'm going to shave your head!"

He ran up the stairs, pausing at the landing to stick his head through the railing. "At least I'll still be prettier than you!" he yelled.

Francey kicked at her half-assembled bookshelf, cracking it down the middle and scattering pieces over the floor. "Go to your room, you fucking brat!" she screamed.

"I am in my room!" he shouted back, slamming the door so hard he tripped and fell on the floor. He stumbled to his feet and leaped onto his messy, unmade bed, burying his face in his pillow and screaming at the top of his lungs, the sound muffled.

He rolled onto his back and hugged his pillow to his heaving chest. The photograph he kept hidden under his pillow fluttered away and he lunged to catch it. He sighed as he studied it. They all looked so happy, the four of them standing on the dock by the lake. Sometimes he forgot how pretty his mother was, or how his father's eyes crinkled up when he smiled, or how Francey used to laugh like that all the time.

He swallowed hard around the lump in his throat and tucked the picture back underneath his pillow, then laid back down to stare at the ceiling, his thoughts tangling his mind.

It was dark when Francey tapped his bedroom open. "Hey," she said softly. "I brought you some pizza, in case you were hungry."

She crept a little closer, but he didn't look at her. "We're a broken family, aren't we?" he whispered.

"No," she said. She set the plate down on his nightstand, turned on the lamp, and sat down next to him. "Well, maybe a little."

He watched his ceiling fan turn lazily. "Maybe a lot," he corrected.

Francey sighed and reached over to rub his tummy. "I'm sorry I yelled at you," she said.

"You're my big sister and I'm your little brother," he shrugged. "That's supposed to be our job."

"Yes, well, from now on-"

"I like you better as a sister than a mom," he said.

Francey sort of smiled, still tracing her fingertips along his tummy. "Yeah?" she said.

His eyes watered. "And you like me better as a brother than a rabbit, right?" he ventured, his lips trembling.

"Oh," Francey said with a start. "Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh." She scooped him and settled him on her lap, pressing his head to her shoulder. "Yes." She kissed the top of his head. "Yes, I do."

He snuggled against her. "I hit Wes Chang today," he confessed.

"Really?" she said.

"Before I bit him."

She sighed. "Well, did he at least deserve it?" she asked.

He pulled one of Francey's long ringlets over her shoulder and twined it around his finger. "He said I was crazy," he said. "I'm not crazy, am I?"

"You're not," she said. "You're very unusual for a seven-year-old boy, but you're not crazy."

He wrapped her silky curl around his pointer finger. "They treat me different," he said quietly.

"They just don't know what to say," she said.

He let go of the curl, watching it spring back into shape. "Even before Daddy and Mama died, they treated me different," he whispered. "Why do I have to be different, Francey?"

She kissed him softly on the cheek. "You're just special," she said. "Listen, let's make a deal. If you promise not to fight anymore, I promise not yell at you anymore. Except on special occasions."

He cuddled a little closer. "Tuesdays and bank holidays would be nice," he suggested. Suddenly something bright outside his window caught his eye and he bolted upright. "A falling star!" He scrambled off his sister's lap. "I call it! I call it! Get out! I have to make a wish!" He grabbed her by the arm and started tugging her towards the door. "Can't you go any faster, Frances?"

"Oh no!" Francey said. "Gravity! It's increasing on me!"

She leaned back against him; he huffed and tried to shove her back. "No, it's not!" he argued.

"Oh, yes it is, Blaine, the same thing happened last week," she said cheerfully before flopping over and pinning him to the floor.

"You stupid sister, your butt is crushing me!" he screeched, pushing her off of him and scrambling back into his room. "Why are you so weird!'

He flailed at the door, closing it part of the way, and clambered onto his windowseat. Carefully he raised the sash and leaned on the ledge, clasping his hands together. "It's me again," he said, gazing up at the starry sky. "I would like to make a wish, please."

No one answered him. He took a deep breath, breathing in the scent of the pine trees, and looked up. "I need someone to be my friend," he said. "Someone who won't run away." He brightened. "Maybe an angel. The nicest angel you have." He squared his shoulders. "So that's my wish. Thank you very much. And…amen, I suppose."

He climbed down from the bench and turned around to see Francey standing in the doorway, her green-gold eyes very soft. "You should be in bed," she said. "Come on. Put on your PJs and brush your teeth." She cleared her throat. "And maybe…maybe tomorrow we can go down to the animal shelter and find you a puppy. Would you like that?"

"Daddy said we couldn't have a puppy," Blaine objected. "He's allergic."

Francey swallowed hard. "Yeah, well, I'm the boss now, and I say we should get a puppy," she said. She spanked him playfully. "Come on. Bedtime, Babbie."


Author's Notes:

OH MY GOODNESS WHAT IS THIS I DON'T EVEN.

Welp, you know how I said I would update the baby story every Sunday? Well, this is my new Monday story.

I was watching Lilo and Stitch earlier today. It's one of my all time favorite movies. And so I'm sitting there, and it gets to the scene where Lilo tells Stitch about how her parents died, and asks him if he dreams about his family, and says she hears him cry at night. And that whole scene, I have lip wibbles (like usual) and I'm all verklempt and...

...and then I think what if little Blaine was Lilo and little Kurt was Stitch?

Weird, yes. Adorable? I certainly hope so!

I've already written about half of the next chapter, and it is adorable. Little Kurt is so unhappy and surly and little Blaine just loves him.

So yeah. I hope you like this, even for all of its weirdness!