Lean in close to my little record player on the floor
So this is what the volume knob's for
"Why is everything always fucking breaking in this house?"
"Well, maybe if you didn't man-handle everything like a caveman, things would last longer!"
The shouts from the kitchen were beginning to escalate quickly. They had started as they usually did; hushed murmurs of discontent that would eventually evolve into a two man war.
Blaine scooted closer to the television in the den. The curly-haired six year old was used to his parents fighting; as of late they had been arguing whenever an opportunity arose. Today was no different.
"I shouldn't have to treat everything in this house like it's made of glass!" came a masculine voice, absolutely seething with rage.
"We'll just have to replace it," replied Blaine's mother. It was steadier than her husband's, but dripping with aggression.
"And where do you think you're going to get that money from?" he hissed.
Blaine was so close to the television that his forehead was mere centimeters from the screen. He halted before he could get any further. The last time he had been this close, his father had yelled at him about ruining his vision.
Blaine lurched back. He pulled his attention away from the newscaster his father had been watching before he had trundled into the kitchen.
The voices in the kitchen had suddenly grown quiet. Blaine could still hear their muffled voices, but the words were lost on him. He got to his feet hesitantly. He would have to see for himself that they had stopped arguing for now.
Once he was at the threshold between the rooms, he peered into the kitchen.
His mother ducked as a glass shattered against the wall behind her.
Blaine didn't hear his father's screams. He didn't wait around to watch his mother dissolve into tears.
Blaine launched himself back through the den, up the stairs, and didn't stop until he was shut safely behind the door of his bedroom.
He stood stock-still in the center of his room. His breathing came in hurried puffs. But he didn't cry. Real men didn't cry, his father had told him. And Blaine was a real man, he told himself. He had learned to ride his bicycle without training wheels before Mikey down the street had after all.
No matter how many times he told himself that men weren't supposed to be afraid, Blaine couldn't ignore the shouts from downstairs that followed him to his room. He had never seen his parents that furious before. Their twisted faces were still burning fresh in his memory.
Looking around his room, Blaine's eyes landed on the colorful radio that his aunt gave him this past Christmas. He pulled it off the bottom shelf of his bookcase and turned it on.
It was still set to a news program that his father had once told him to listen to. Blaine moved one of the little knob around, shifting through the stations. He paused on something he hadn't head before.
The tempo was upbeat and fast. The lyrics melted into the instruments in perfect harmony. All of the musical complexities were lost on Blaine, of course. All he knew was it made him want to tap his feet.
He leaned in closer to the speaker, trying to pick up everything, but to no avail. He could still hear his parents.
His eyes shifted to on of the other knobs. It was the one his father had told him to never touch. It was currently set to four. Reaching a hand out, Blaine turned it up tentatively.
The music grew louder. Blaine twisted the knob further. He realized suddenly that he could no longer hear the two other people in the house. No, he was in a world of his own.
Blaine allowed himself to be lost in the music. One song turned quickly into another, just as bubbly and exciting as the last. He danced around the room in a way that can only be accomplished by a six year old.
His door burst open, his father's hard gaze locked on the child in front of him. Blaine stopped immediately.
"Didn't I tell you not to raise the volume on that thing? I can't hear myself think," the man said. His voice wasn't raised like it had been with his wife. That didn't mean the words came out any less harsh.
"I'm sorry, sir," came Blaine's response, his head bowed. His father didn't avert his gaze.
"Change that music. You want people to think you're gay or something?" Even though Blaine failed to understand what his father meant, the little boy knew that he had disappointed his father. With one final glare, the bedroom door snapped shut.
Blaine made his way to the radio. He lowered the volume, but didn't bother to change the radio station.
A/N
So, there's the first part. I don't own Glee, and the lyrics belong to The Mountain Goats.
I plan to continue this for another chapter or two, but I would really like to hear what people think about this little plot bunny I had going in my head.
-Jim