He was sitting on Kurt's bed when he got the call. He'd gone to the Hudson-Hummel home after the Glee Club had finished serenading the homeless earlier that night, and had already changed into his plaid pajama outfit. He was updating his Facebook status—I had such a great time singing with the Glee Club tonight, especially getting to do something for the less fortunate, and ESPECIALLY getting to play house with my gorgeous boyfriend, Kurt Hummel—while he was waiting for Kurt to finish his skin care regimen.
That's when his phone rang. The chorus of "Last Friday Night (T.G.I.F.)" interrupted his Facebooking, and he looked at the screen of his phone to see the caller, betting that it was Thad with an I-need-a-gay-guy's-opinion-stat emergency concerning what he was going to get his manic girlfriend for Christmas.
It wasn't Thad.
It was his father.
Blaine immediately stopped breathing. He knew precisely why his father was calling—after all, conversations with the man, whether via cables or face-to-face, did not happen often—and internally curled up into a terrified heap. How was he going to explain that night to his father?
He accepted the call.
"I want your ass home in twenty minutes."
"No. No excuses. I don't want to hear another word out of your mouth. God damn it, what were you thinking, Blaine? Flaunting your...your...abnormalities for all of western Ohio, prancing around like a fairy with that faggot—"
He had just snapped his last jar shut when he heard the chorus of "Last Friday Night (T.G.I.F.)" from his bedroom. He rolled his eyes; he would bet the entire Versace line that it was that complete slut-pig Sebastian trying to hit on Blaine one more time. Kurt swore the last time that happened that if the Warbler tried anything again, Kurt would personally make him a soprano. He stood and walked to the door leading to his bedroom, leaning against the frame to demand that Blaine not talk to the asshole—but then he paused.
It wasn't Sebastian.
It was Blaine's father.
Kurt knew this before Blaine could even stammer out a squeaky "Dad, I—" He knew it from the complete lack of color in the younger boy's skin, the way his hands shook, the size of those hazel eyes, the irregularity of his breathing. He knew Blaine was utterly terrified.
He also knew why the man—could one even call him a man?—was initiating communication with his son, an altogether rare experience. He knew that while Rick Anderson probably did not watch the Glee Christmas Special himself, the man had most likely heard about it relatively quickly from a coworker or acquaintance. He knew the rage Mr. Anderson had felt, and he knew that he was about to take that out on his son.
Well, not if Kurt Hummel could help it.
"Don't you tell me what to do! You are an embarrassment to this family!"
"It's not what it looked—it's just acting—I know this seems—"
"Seems? Seems? You want to know what this seems like to me, Blaine? It seems like my 'out and proud' son, continually determined to make a fool out of the man who gave him life, who provides for him and feeds him and sent him to the best school in Ohio, decided to go on live fucking television and announce to the world that Rick Anderson, one of the most prestigious and sought-after lawyers this side of the Mississippi, spawned a faggot!"
Blaine flinched, holding the phone away from his ear as his father berated him at an ever-increasing volume. How could he have been so naive? Of course his father was going to find out about this—his father found out about everything. Even though the show labeled him and Kurt as "best friends and holiday roommates," it was pretty clear that they were a gay couple living together.
And Blaine wanted that. He wanted it all—the house and the dance and the fireplace and the forgetting to turn on the oven and the downed internet and the friends for the holidays—that he allowed himself to live in the moment and forget about the world of hate outside that tiny set.
And now he was paying for it. He moved the phone closer to his ear again. "Dad, look—"
"Why the fuck aren't you home yet?"
"I'm two hours away, Dad. I'm still in Lima.
Kurt could hear Rick Anderson screaming at his son, even though he was across the room. He watched Blaine recoil when the word faggot was spit through the receiver. Immediately, Kurt crossed over and knelt in front his shaking boyfriend, placing his hands on the younger boy's knees. He forced Blaine to keep eye contact with him, making sure he knew exactly how much he was loved.
"What the fuck do you mean you're still in Lima?"
Kurt could barely hear the older man through the phone. The tone was so quiet, so level—so sinister.
"Dad, I'm...I'm at Kurt's house."
Blaine really wanted Kurt to go away. He needed to feel his presence more than anything, but he didn't want Kurt to know just how bad things were with his father. He wanted to protect his boyfriend from the hatred his father exuded at all times.
But the intensity in those blue eyes told him that Kurt wasn't going anywhere.
"I'm coming there."
"NO!" Forgetting that Kurt was right there at his feet, Blaine leapt up, sending the other boy sprawling. He instantly reached down to steady him, but his mind was not even close to being in Kurt's bedroom. "Dad, no, please, you can't come here, I'll be home as soon as I can, I'm leaving now, I swear—"
"No. I'm coming to get you, and I am going to have a talk with that boy's father."
"No, no, no, no, no," Blaine mumbled pacing back and forth, his fingers flying to his hair and slicing through the gel like it was butter in their tension. "Dad, I'm leaving. I'm getting in my car, okay? Just...don't worry about Kurt, okay? Just leave him out of this."
"You disgust me."
Once Kurt was no longer spread out on the floor, he stood up and watched his boyfriend unravel before his eyes. He knew that he shouldn't intervene, that this was a family issue, that none of this was any of his business—
—and then he heard it. "You disgust me." He had never, in the year he had known Blaine, seen the younger boy look so hurt, as though he had witnessed the murder of a puppy—as if he himself was a murdered puppy. Those hazel eyes glassed over, and those eyelids quickly squeezed shut to stifle the tears threatening to spill across Blaine's face.
That did it. Kurt never knew so much anguish and pain and heartbreak could fit into one single broken syllable. He refused, utterly refused, to allow anyone to speak to the man he loved that way.
He strode across the room and, shooting an apologetic look to his nearly-sobbing boyfriend, snatched the cell phone from Blaine's hand. He watched with amusement as Blaine's expression switched from shattered to shocked in mere moments. He pressed the phone to his own ear.
"Hello, Mr. Anderson? Hi, I'm Kurt Hummel." He didn't even allow the man a moment to speak. "I need you to listen, and I need you to listen closely, because I'm only going to say this once, and I want you to remember this conversation. Got it? Good. You are a bastard. A cold, hard, ruthless, emotionless, unworthy bastard who can't even see the beautiful son that he has. Yes, that's right, beautiful. Your son is the most attractive, selfless, kind, talented, understanding, intelligent, beautiful man I have ever met, and you know what else? I'm in love with him. I know that in fifty years, when we're married with kids in college and successful careers and God forbid crow's feet, I'm going to wake up to his gorgeous face next to mine—and I look forward to nothing more. So you can take your prejudiced, homophobic, hate-filled, evil ass to hell and suck it!" Kurt punctuated his last sentence by viciously attacking the end call button.
Chest heaving, he turned to look at Blaine, who wore the most peculiar expression upon his face.
Blaine watched as Kurt spat obscenities and distaste at his father. The older boy's normally porcelain skin was flushed with anger, and his previously coifed locks were now slightly askew in his excitement. Kurt gesticulated wildly with the hand that wasn't holding the cell phone, even though Rick Anderson couldn't see him. When he finished the call—dear God, did he really just tell my father to "suck it"?—Blaine was speechless.
He was shocked. He had never seen Kurt lose it like that. He'd witnessed a fair few sibling arguments that Kurt always won via superior vocabulary and bitch, please glares, and he knew that Kurt chased after Karofsky a few days after they met the year prior, but he could not recall ever watching Kurt fly off the handle and utterly berate someone like he just had his father.
He was slightly turned on. He had seen Kurt's hair mussed and his skin red like that before—the night they had sex. Watching Kurt work himself up into such a state made Blaine want nothing more than to toss him onto the wonderfully made bed and wonderfully unmake it.
He was touched. No one had ever stood up for him like that—not even himself. Since his days at his first high school, Blaine had learned to fight his own battles and to stop taking crap from others, but he never managed to apply these lessons to his father. He still shrunk away every time his father coughed too loudly or raised a hand to scratch his head; he'd been doing so since he was five years old. But Kurt, fearless Kurt, interposed himself between Blaine and his tormentor, not even allowing the man to turn the blows onto him before delivering his own. No one—not his mother, not Wes, not David—had ever rushed to his defense like Kurt had.
He was scared. He knew that his father had flown into a rage as soon as Kurt hung up the phone, and was most likely on his way to the Hudson-Hummel residence at that very moment. He knew that he would stop at nothing before exacting revenge upon that sassy, bitchy he-she for disrespecting him and violating his son. He also knew that if his father tried to lay a hand on Kurt, he would defend his boyfriend to the death, a proposition which terrified him nonetheless.
He was so in love. Kurt was simply the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, the most magical thing to ever dance into his life. There was really nothing else to say: Blaine loved Kurt more than he believed it was possible to love a human being.
All of this mixed into one indefinable, unnamable facial expression that broke Kurt's heart even further.
Kurt gently eased a frozen Blaine onto the bed, wrapping a blanket around his shoulders. He tossed the phone onto the comforter violently, as if the device had personally offended him. He noticed that Blaine couldn't stop staring at him as though he was an alien creature of some kind. Eventually it became too much for Kurt, who was coming down hard from the adrenalin rush.
"Blaine, why are you—"
A hard pair of lips interrupted his question. Blaine grabbed his face like a lifeline and held on tight, pressing harder and harder against Kurt's lips with his own. A shocked Kurt responded a few moments later, wrapping his arms around Blaine's neck and tugging him closer. When he did so, Blaine's lips left Kurt's, trailing instead across his jaw and down his neck.
"That...was the...bravest...scariest...stupidest...most wonderful...sexiest thing...anyone...has ever done for me," Blaine panted against Kurt's still-red skin. Unable to breathe properly, Kurt allowed him to continue. "No one...has ever...spoken to...my father that way. Thank you...so much...I should've..." Blaine couldn't concentrate. He reaffirmed his hold on Kurt face and pressed their foreheads together, staring intently into Kurt's wide blue eyes. "I should've defended myself. I should have said all those things to him, not you. You...you shouldn't have to fight my battles for me. I should be stronger than this."
"Shut up." Kurt brushed Blaine's hands away from his face so he could place his own on Blaine's cheeks. "We take care of each other. Do you remember how you came to my defense when Karofsky kissed me?" Blaine nodded, that old feeling of burning jealousy stirring up in his stomach momentarily. "You taught me how to defend myself against the one person I feared more than any other. Now it's my turn. You didn't fight your father tonight, but that's okay. We've got time. One day you'll be able to look him in the eye and say, 'Screw you.' And I can't wait to be there for that." Kurt then pulled Blaine down until the two were lying on their sides, feet dangling off of the bed, still gazing into each other's eyes. "You're going to be okay, Blaine. You're perfect. I won't let him near you again."
"He's on his way here, Kurt," Blaine mumbled.
"Then he's going to have to get used to standing in the cold, because there is no way in hell that any of us—me, my dad, Finn, Carole—are letting him in the house. We all love you, Blaine, even Finn, and we will protect you."
Blaine softly pressed his lips against Kurt's. "I love you."
"I love you, too." Kurt paused. "And I really enjoyed playing house with you tonight."
A slight smile graced Blaine's face—the first since the call. "Kurt...when you were...I suppose you could say talking, although berating would be a more accurate term...when you were talking to my father, you said...well, you talked about getting married and having kids." His stomach flipped as he watched Kurt's skin flush red again. "Did you...did you mean that?"
Wordlessly, Kurt lifted a hand to trace the features of Blaine's face: eyes, brows, nose, lips, ears, chin, hairline. Blaine allowed himself to melt into the soft touch, feeling Kurt memorize his face. After a lengthy silence, Kurt said, "That is the only future I'll accept for myself now, Blaine. I want you. I want a house. I want kids—several, so get prepared. I want a career. I want ballet recitals and football games and clashing schedules and arguments and rocking chairs and tears and laughter and you, God, you. The idea of tomorrow without you in unfathomable to me. It just doesn't exist. It's not an option. You are my only option."
Blaine was speechless. He could only allow soft, salty tears to roll down his cheeks again. Kurt brushed them away with the pad of his thumb, and then he scooted closer to press another kiss to Blaine's lips.
Silence descended upon them, and the exhausting events of the night caught up to them. As they drifted off to sleep, the two remained curled up in each other's arms, holding on as though the other would slip away. Just before he succumbed to unconsciousness, Blaine mumbled. "Kurt?"
"You're going to look beautiful with crow's feet."
Both feel asleep smiling.
Okay, so I made a few edits, and then I totally rewrote the ending because mine SUCKED and the GENIUS yrl suggested I end it the way I did. And it is SO MUCH BETTER than what my lame brain came up with.
So, I've have several requests for a sequel, and I WILL be publishing one concerning a confrontation with Mister Rick Anderson (whom, by the way, I named after Rick Perry, one of the homophobic dicks running for President of the United States). I don't know how long it'll be before I get time to publish it, so please don't hold your breath, because you will die, and then the cops will come after me, and then I'll get arrested, and then I'll never be able to publish it. So just wait.
Love you guys! Thanks for all of the encouragement and niceness you've sent my way! You rock!