Kurt Hummel-Anderson paced the living room impatiently, hearing constant ringing on the other side of the cell phone.
"Why isn't he picking up his phone?!"
His husband, Blaine, lounged casually on the couch swiping across his iPad.
"Probably still sleeping."
Kurt's blue eyes went wide.
"It's 2 in the afternoon!"
"On a Sunday, Kurt. I'm willing to bet he was up till 6 or 7 this morning atleast."
"You're not making me feel any better!"
Blaine raised his eyebrows.
"Oh? You really want me to tell you what else I think he might be doing on a Sunday afternoon? Such as ...perhaps with a member of the opposite sex?"
If it was possible for Kurt to turn any paler, he did.
"Oh God, Blaine! How can you say something like that about our little boy?!"
"He's not little anymore, Kurt. He's in college. In Chicago. Far enough away for him to be getting up to such things I should imagine."
"That's it!"
Kurt slammed his phone down onto the couch.
"I'm going over there."
Blaine regarded his husband with further surprise.
"Wow! Really? But no, of course that's not overreacting at all."
Kurt glared at his sarcasm.
"I would have thought you might be a little more concerned about your son's well-being!"
"I am. Which is why I intend to let him learn from his own mistakes how to stand on his own two feet and face the world on his own."
"From the looks of it, all he's learning is that a hangover is the free gift you find at the bottom every bottle of vodka."
"Kurt, why are you being so stubborn about this?"
"Because he's living on beer and chilli cheese fries! I just know it!"
"I wouldn't be surprised. Remember our college days?"
"We made a salad once in a while!"
"You made the salad! I only got into bed with you!"
Kurt pulled a face.
"You're not getting any younger, you know. Pretty soon you'll begin to reap the benefits of the healthy living I impose on you."
Blaine reached for Kurt's hand and yanked him towards the couch.
"Then let's enjoy them together!" he said, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
The phone kept buzzing persistently until one of the two young men, passed out in their boxers in the living room stirred and began fumbling through the debris.
"Wha-?"
"Ah good. You're still alive. Heads up, your dad's paying you a visit."
It was as if a spring had been suddenly released behind his back.
Drake Hummel-Anderson bolted upright.
"Wait, Dad's coming here?! Why?!"
"Check how many missed calls you've got since last night. You'll get the picture."
Drake groaned, running a hand through his already completely dishevelled hair.
"Daaad!" he whined, "You couldn't stop him?"
"Glad to see you're so happy to receive family. Why? What's your status?"
He made a face.
"You know how whenever you guys come over Dad starts folding things?"
"Yeah?"
"Well, think about how long it's been since you guys paid me a visit. You might just get the idea!"
"Don't you think you're old enough to start doing some of that folding yourself?"
Just then a sharp rap sounded on the door.
Drake tossed a pile of accumulated junk off of himself and clambered to his feet, uttering a stream of filthy curses all the while.
On the other side of the line, Blaine sighed.
"Son. My hearing is still impeccable. Unfortunately."
Drake peered through the peephole in his door and did a double-take.
"Dad! He's here already! Why didn't you call me sooner?!"
"I did call you sooner! You were just too hungover to pick up the phone!"
He opened the door to be faced with the grim yet immaculate image of his father.
"Thanks for the warning, Dad," he growled into the phone and slammed it shut. Then
he pasted a patently plastic smile on his face and ushered Kurt in.
"Welcome, Father. Please, step into my boudoir."
It took all of Kurt's impressive self-control to keep from screaming at the sight that met his eyes as he entered his son's apartment. All that emerged from his throat was a stifled squeak.
"Sorry, Dad, I haven't had a chance to clean up."
"In what?! A million years?!"
The apartment, though small was sufficient for the two young men who shared it. Currently, though, it appeared to have been on the business end of a tropical cyclone. Clothes, newspapers, pizza boxes, plastic cups, books and papers were strewn everywhere. Only one of the lights appeared to be working, and that too had a t-shirt draped over it. It felt as though it hadn't been vaccuumed for several months atleast.
At the far end of the room, a collapsed heap began to stir. Kurt almost jumped.
"Is- is there someone under there?"
Drake frowned.
"Brent! Get up or I'll kick you till you do! My dad's here."
Another thoroughly dishevelled young man, who had further not shaved for atleast two months and therefore had a straggly growth of a sandy brown beard all over his face, tottered to his feet.
"Oh," he slurred, disoriented," Hiya Mr... Hummelanderson."
"Steven," Kurt nodded, eyeing him disapprovingly.
"I'll ...be right out of your way..."
He stumbled towards the window and almost bumped into an armchair hidden under piles of clothes.
"Hey...uh- Henderson...?"
"Bathroom's this way, egghead!"
"Oh...righ' "
He turned around and stumbled back.
Kurt leaned over inquisitively.
"Henderson?"
"He claims Hummel-Anderson is too much of a mouthful. So, Henderson."
Kurt's lips compressed into a disapproving line and he gave a disdainful sniff.
"Wasn't that much of a mouthful when I married your father and decided to change my name. Now all you kids want is abbreviations. Do let me know when he starts calling you D.H.A. !"
Despite himself, Drake had to smile. He leaned against the table and watched as his father daintily picked his way through the wreckage left by the two young bachelors, trying to sort through the mess. Unconsciously, a fond smile stole over his lips. He picked up a t-shirt lying on the top of the closest heap and pulled it on, not caring whose it really was, and came forward to help.
"You left Dad in New York on a Sunday to come and clean my mess? You must really be missing me, old man!"
Kurt straightened a lamp and plugged it in, allowing some more light to brighten the gloom, then speared his son with a daggered glare.
"You just watch who you're calling old, whippersnapper!"
Drake grinned and picked up a stack of books.
"I missed you too, Dad. I know I've grown up and I'm supposed to take care of myself and stuff, but..."
"Still need Daddy around to make you breakfast?"
Kurt flashed him a superior smirk. His son groaned and flopped onto the piled up couch.
"Wow, I don't remember the last time I even had breakfast!"
Kurt stopped and frowned a little.
"Skipping breakfast is suicide. You know that don't you?"
Drake just shook his head and rubbed his eyes.
"Sure, whatever."
Kurt placed his hands on his hips, looked at his son then marched towards the boys' tiny kitchen.
Drake followed his progress with consternation.
"No, wait, Dad! You're going to be even more disappointed in there than you were in here!"
Kurt rummaged through the shelves nonetheless, turning his nose up at the rubbish he found within. Finally he came upon what he was looking for.
"Cheerios?"
He walked over to the fridge and dug out a half-empty carton of milk from the very back.
Drake watched the proceedings with a look of puzzlement.
His father scrounged for two empty bowls and then dug out spoons and set them down on the cluttered little kitchen table.
"Sit," he commanded, imperiously.
Out of sheer habit, Drake sat. His dad poured out some Cheerios and splashed a liberal amount of milk and shoved it towards him.
"Eat."
Drake looked up at him, still completely bewildered. He was preparing a similar bowl for himself with the last dregs of the milk.
"Cheerios, Dad? At night?"
"I'm afraid there's no milk left for Steven. Remind me to go grocery shopping for you tomorrow."
Drake continued to stare at him as he took his seat across from him. Kurt smiled.
"Go on, eat up. We can call it late night breakfast. If this is how you're going to live through college, someday you're going to thank the heavens for cereal and milk!"
Suddenly Drake's eyes misted over and he hurriedly bent his head over his bowl, digging into the cereal.
"I'm really screwing this up, aren't I?" he mumbled with his mouth full.
"Bet you guys weren't such slobs when you were in college."
Kurt reached over and squeezed his hand.
"Everybody screws up at the beginning, son. You'll learn soon enough. But that's no reason why I shouldn't be allowed to come over and make sure my little boy isn't stewing in his own filth!"
Drake attempted a scowl to mask his hasty blinking back of the tears that had gathered in his eyes.
"Geez, Dad, I'm not little anymore!"
Kurt didn't say a word, but his eyes danced above his grin.
Later, when Kurt had taken a large load of the boys' laundry down to the washing machines in the basement, forcing Steven along to help him, Drake called home.
"Dad making your life miserable?"
"Yeah. And clean!"
He heard Blaine chuckle on the other side.
"Attaboy Kurt!"
"We had Cheerios for dinner."
"Well, that means hamburgers for breakfast. My champions!"
Drake pouted even though his father couldn't see it.
"He still treats me like a little boy. And now I'm beginning to think you do to!"
"What're you complaining about?! It gets your apartment cleaned and your laundry done! Be grateful, you little brat!"
"See?! There you go again! I'm not little, Dad!"
There was silence at the other end of the phone for a second. Then Blaine sighed and commented, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.
"Drake, you can run away and try and grow up all you want. But you're never going to stop being your Daddy's little boy."
THE END