The Most Wonderful Day of the Year
Curls flew and feet stumbled as an incredibly excited six-year-old Blaine Anderson clambered down the stairs, grinning from ear-to-ear. It was Christmas morning, and he couldn't have been happier.
Presents from Santa, presents from Santa! The words played through his tiny head, his dimples so deep it was painful. He skidded to a stop in the living room, falling to his knees in front of the tree, his parents sitting quietly in chairs behind him, unenthused as usual.
The little boy paused, looking at the presents before him. They were all there yesterday… He frowned, and stood, toddling his way into the den with the other tree, wondering if Santa left his presents there instead.
But the skirt beneath the tree remained empty. His heart started to pound as he ran to his stocking, wondering if he'd been put on the naughty list this year and gotten coal. No. The stocking had no coal in it either. He peered at the side-table beside the couch. The cookies and milk remained untouched.
Santa hadn't been there at all. Tears filled his eyes, confused ones that stung his eyes.
"Mommy, Daddy?" He said, voice shaking.
"What is it, honey?" His mother sighed.
"Why, why didn't Santa come?" He asked, his little heart cracking. His father scoffed.
"Blaine, there's no such thing as Santa Clause. He's not real. It's time you come out of this little fantasy land of yours," he said, ruthlessly tearing something important from his son.
The boy stared at him, the magic of the world snatched away from him. "N-no Santa?"
"No!" His father snapped.
"Buh-but I sent him a letter-"
"It gets thrown away with all of the other ones sent by delusional children."
"Blaine, open your presents, sweetie," his mother advised, glaring at her husband. "Charles, we said we would be gentle about this."
"Well he has perfectly good gifts in front of him and all he can think about are the one's he doesn't have. Ungrateful little…" His father's mutterings went unheard.
Blaine plopped onto the floor, trying to keep his tears locked away. What his father didn't know, was he hadn't asked Santa for any more presents. He asked Santa for Mommy to get a day to herself, like she always talked about with her friends. He asked for Daddy to be able to get time off work and be able to put his phone down for more than an hour or two, like he and Mommy always fought about. He wasn't sure how Santa would have wrapped that, but he would have.
But Santa wasn't real.
He opened his presents, wishing he could be happy with his new toys and clothes. He hugged his Mommy with a thank you, wishing that he could cry into her shoulder like he wanted. Crying made Daddy mad, so he'd have to do it by himself.
"Thank you, Daddy."
His father said nothing. Blaine threw his paper away and gathered his new toys. "I'm gonna go play, Mommy."
"Alright. We're going to grandmas at about three, okay, honey?" She said, eyes slightly pained as she watched her son go. The boy waited until he was out of sight before he ran to his room. He set his presents down, forgotten and unwanted in his sadness. He climbed into his bed, sobbing into his pillow, heartbroken.
He did ask Santa for one thing. He asked him for one Christmas where his mother didn't drink too much eggnog and his father didn't spend the entire time at Grandmas comparing him to his cousins, complaining that his son was just not good enough. He asked for one Christmas morning where his parents sat on the floor and opened presents with him, smiling, laughing and happy. He asked for a Christmas where his daddy would be like all the other daddies and let him sit on his lap, play catch with him and give him a hug when he thanked him for his presents. He asked Santa for a Christmas where he was happy with a daddy that loved him.
But if Santa didn't exist, then there was no hope.
He cried so hard into the pillow, such a broken mess of a child.
At six years old, Blaine Anderson didn't believe in magic.
Ten years later…
Blaine sat down to his Christmas dinner-for-one in his silent house. Nothing was said, nothing heard but the clinking of his silverware against the plate.
The lonely boy ate slowly, chewing soundlessly without a friend in the world. His phone buzzed on the table, lighting up and making a fair bit of noise.
The text he received read: "Merry Christmas, Blaine." It was from Kurt. He beamed, the first smile he'd given all day. At least someone remembered him, and he was more than happy that person was his best friend.
One year later…
Another Christmas alone. At least he'd spent most of the time leading up to this horrific day with a beautiful boy. The Christmas special was fantastic, getting to spend all that time with him, but it didn't get rid of the mild ache that he felt watching him and not being able to hold his hand or hug him, and it was that much more difficult that he looked so beautiful and acted so flawlessly. God, he was going to be the most amazingly spectacular thing to hit the world since Audrey Hepburn.
The homeless shelter was great. He'd never seen Kurt with kids before, and watching him smile and even play with some of those kids made his heart swell to the point of agony. God, he loved him so much.
He was eating now, again, all alone. And the sting of not seeing that beautiful boy, today, right now on Christmas only made all of this worse. He wanted to be with him, right now, instead of sitting in the cool silence of this awful place he called a house, where the only place with good memories in this hellhole was his bedroom, and that was also thanks to Kurt.
He was happy that Kurt was with his family right now, that he was laughing and smiling and opening presents with friends and family. They were singing and warm, unlike his cold, silent house with his parents in Hawaii and homophobic family that wanted nothing to do with him.
He peeked at the message Kurt had sent him this morning, an anchor that kept him smiling through this pain.
Merry Christmas, Blaine. I love you, it read.
Blaine set the phone down, finding the words too painful to look at. He hadn't told Kurt that he'd be all alone at Christmas, or that he would be at every Christmas. He didn't want to see his sweet, angelic face fall with sadness. He didn't want him to worry during a time when everyone is supposed to be happy. So he kept it a secret that he would be alone…so alone.
He opened nothing this morning. The only present he was given was a Visa card with x-amount of dollars on it. No card or anything. Everything here was so cold, so meaningless.
Hot tears stung his eyes as he stared down at his plate, which he shoved away, sick of it, sick of everything. His face fell into his hands, crying softly and knowing it would only get louder, and harder until it hurt and he was a coughing, blubbering mess in his bed until he was asleep.
Merry fucking Christmas. He thought miserably, crying harder, wishing he was wrapped in Kurt's arms.
The doorbell rang. He sat up, looking confused as he sniffed and wiped his eyes. He headed toward the door, gaining his composure as best as he could before opening the door.
Kurt stood before him in an elegant deep red sweater with presents and Tupperware in his arms. Blaine froze, trying not to sway in the doorway, so taken aback by his boyfriend's sudden presence.
"Kurt," he managed, having to clear his throat. "What are you doing here?"
A wry smile found it's way to his delicate features. "Well it seems that Santa left these for you at my house." Blaine jolted as if he'd been struck, his dewy eyes almost overflowing now. Kurt's smile faded, seeing his distress. "Blaine, what's wrong?"
He shook his head, backing up so Kurt could come inside, on the verge of violent tears. The countertenor quickly put everything down before placing his hands on Blaine's shoulders. "Blaine, baby, what's wrong?" He looked around the empty house, the empty, silent house. The dark-haired boy looked at the floor, searching and stammering for words, so broken.
Kurt understood, his eyes pained as he wrapped his arms around him, heart giving a hard pang when the slightly shorter boy clung to him as tightly as he could, finally breaking down into soft sobs.
"Shh, shh…" Kurt soothed rubbing his back and kissing his neck. "Why didn't you say you were gonna be alone, baby?"
"I didn't want you to worry," he whispered. "It's Christmas."
"That's exactly why you should have said something," Kurt said, still pained. He rocked him for a minute, squeezing him tight. "Hey," he said gently, lifting his chin and giving a warm smile. "How about we have our own Christmas, right here?"
"Wouldn't you rather be at your house?" He asked tearfully, wiping his eyes. Kurt's heart broke for him again.
"Why would I want to be there when you're right here?" He breathed, stroking his cheek, kissing him softly. "My house was crazy, anyway," he chuckled. "Puck, Rory, Sam, Finn, Rachel, Carole's parents, Dad's parents…" He shook his head. "It was insane. And all I wanted," his hands slipped to Blaine's waist, foreheads pressed together, "was to be with you."
He could see it in Blaine's eyes how lonely he was. How hurt and heartbroken he was, and in turn it just hurt him more. "So," he said, voice soft, "how about we heat up some leftovers, open some presents and then…" Kurt kissed him, gentle, slow burning and comforting. Blaine sighed, still teary-eyed and hurt, but his Kurt's arms made everything better. He made it all go away.
"That sounds wonderful," he whispered. They were kissing again, still so slow and languid. "Come on, baby."
Kurt went into the living room and turned the channel to Christmas music before getting a fire going in the fireplace before sitting beside him at the table, which now held an array of Kurt's food from Christmas, all of it making Blaine salivate. He got the usual treatment of "Here, try this," complete with a spoon or a fork offering food, and when it was done he was filled to the brim and dabbing whipped cream on Kurt's nose just to make him giggle.
Presents came next, and Blaine could only shake his head smiling. "Where did these come from?" He asked, picking up one of the boxes.
"I told you," Kurt said cheekily. "Santa left them at my house by mistake." Blaine frowned, looking at the floor. Kurt lifted his chin.
"What's wrong?" He said softly. The dark-haired boy shook his head, swallowing and taking a box from Kurt.
"Nothing," he lied. "I'll just…" He cleared his throat, trying to steady his voice. The pale boy stroked his cheek.
"You can tell me."
"You don't want to hear it," Blaine assured, scoffing at himself and not meeting his eyes. Kurt ducked to catch them anyway.
"Yes, I do. That's what I'm here for, honey."
Blaine mumbled through his story, hating himself for it, not wanting to burden him with something so sad and insignificant.
"…so Christmas has never been a big deal for me. My parents are never home anymore, and the rest of my family doesn't want the 'gay one' corrupting the other grandchildren. So I stay here…by myself."
Kurt shook his head, his heart in such pain, watching those big brown eyes look at him with such pain and near hopelessness. "Kurt, promise me when we have kids we'll let them believe in Santa for as long as they want, please," he gulped.
It wasn't even a question that they'd be having kids some day, which only touched Kurt's heart more as he looked at this poor, sweet thing in front of him. "Of course we will," he nodded, dabbing his eyes with a warm smile. "Come here," he whispered, cradling his face and kissing him gently. Blaine swallowed, placing his hand over his. Kurt brought his hand down, kissing his fingers with soft, careful lips. The dark-haired baritone sighed, propping himself on his knees and falling back on his haunches. He leaned down, kissing Kurt's neck, losing himself in the warm silk. Kurt sighed at the feel of the soft, chaste kisses that met him.
He wrapped his arms around his neck, touching him gently and kissing softly. "Did this help make your Christmas better?" He wondered. Blaine nodded, enveloping Kurt in his arms.
"Best Christmas ever," he whispered. Kurt nuzzled his nose.
"Then open your presents!" He said, giggling. Blaine laughed with him, cradling him so close.
An hour later they were snuggling on the couch, entwined together while the endless hours of "A Christmas Story" played unwatched on the T.V., Kurt dozing on Blaine's chest, which was clad in a new sweater that fit wonderfully.
"Kurt," Blaine whispered.
"Can every Christmas be like this?" He asked. Kurt peered up at those child-like eyes and smiled.