This the longest thing I've written without wanting to punch myself repeatedly in the eye. I'm proud of that fact so excuse me while I pat myself on the back.
The entire fic is complete at this point, but I'll just be updating it twice a week, cause where is the fun in posting ten parts at once?
Also, boo summaries. Let's boycott em.
The apartment is small, with puke green walls that he's not allowed to paint over and a curious stain in the bedroom carpet. In the kitchen, the sink groans every time he tries to use it, and Blaine's not entirely sure the bathroom has been cleaned in the recent decade, but none of that matters.
What matters is that he's in New York, making his way through life with his own money lining his pockets, and not the pity bucks his father sent him from God knows where whenever he suddenly remembers he has from his first marriage.
True, he's not completely independent. Even though it's a shit apartment, he can't afford the place on his own, and so he's rooming with the always lovely Santana Lopez once again.
But, hey, it could be worse.
_
"You know, Blainey-"
"Don't call me that."
"We've been friends since the dinosaurs roamed the earth, but I still don't know shit about your family," Santana finishes, as if Blaine hadn't spoken at all. She leans forward on the couch, staring at Blaine until he looks away from his research paper. "You know everything about me, how come I don't know shit about you?"
"I don't know everything about you," Blaine points out.
"Bullshit. First time we tried out being roomies, you kept track of my menstruation cycle."
Blaine feels himself flush at her words. "Only cause you told me if I didn't keep the fridge stocked full of chocolate you wouldn't be at fault if you chopped my nuts off."
"Fine," Santana sighs, leaning back to stare up at the ceiling as she slowly circles one finger around the rim of her wine glass. "I hate to go back to old things, but I guess I'll have to. Blainey Boo, tell me about your papa. We have wine, I have an odd amount of sympathy, and if you don't, I'll chop your balls off."
"Fuck off, you won't," Blaine mutters in response, turning back to his paper.
He ignores the sound of Santana moving across the small distance between them until she plops down in the chair next to him, placing the bottle of red wine on the table with a little grin.
"C'mon, I won't judge. We both know my family was fucked up," Santana urges, pouring more wine as she speaks. "You can start with your dad, hobbit, everyone's got daddy isues," she adds, placing the glass in front of Blaine.
He sighs, rubbing at his temples for a few moments while he stares at the blinking cursor on his word document, like if he concentrates hard enough, Santana will poof back to the hellish pit from which she came. After a few moments, Blaine looks up to see Santana still sitting there, a little smirk on her face.
"Fine," he sighs, sitting back in his chair and reaching out for the wine. "You want me to start with my dad? He was a lawyer. He left when I was two. He sends me money, cards sometimes, but I haven't actually seen him in a long time. All my mom ever said about him was he was a no good cheating bastard, and God help me if I took after him," Blaine ends with a bitter laugh, lifting the glass of wine to wash away the bad taste talking about his father always leaves in his mouth.
Santana is quiet for a minute, and Blaine's thankful for that. When she finally does speak, she reaches out to squeeze his shoulder with one hand. "Dads suck," she says sagely.
Blaine laughs. "Yeah, they do."
_
Keeping a memory box hadn't been his idea. Surprisingly, it had been Cooper who encouraged him to gather items from his childhood. Blaine was fairly certain it was because Cooper was always preparing for the day he became famous, and he didn't doubt that his brother wouldn't object to selling any old pictures that had the two of them. Still, Blaine liked having the memory box. It was big, and heavy, but on nights when the city was too loud around him, it kept him sane.
Tonight, though, it wasn't that the city was too loud. It was quiet for once. There was the constant background of traffic and voices outside, but Blaine had grown as used to those noises as he had the sound of his mother yelling. They barely register as he sits cross legged on the floor, surrounded by old drawings and report cards. A beer sits off to the side, but it had been forgotten when Blaine got to the bottom of the box, only to find a small bag full of birthday cards.
The cards were laid out directly in front of him and he could feel something inside of him start to break as he slowly picked up one, flipping back the superhero cover to look at the message inside.
Happy birthday, Blaine! I know you're only one and you can't read this, but someday you will. And maybe we'll read it together, look back on old photo albums and be a little sentimental cause fathers and sons can do that together.
I just wanted to write and tell you I love you, buddy.
The small blue writing took up both sides, but Blaine set the card down before reading it all. Blinking hurriedly, he found himself reaching for a second card.
Three years old! You're gonna be grey before I know it!
Another card, wrinkled like someone had tried to crumble it up.
Happy tenth birthday. Sorry I couldn't make it to your party, but you know how work is. Included some money. Spend wisely.
Blaine set the last card down and stared at the rest for a long time before reaching out, knocking them aside.
"Fuck," he whispers, staring at the empty space until his white carpet becomes a haze, and he has to reach for his beer.
_
He's not sure how long he's been drinking.
He's not even sure why he's drinking.
It's not like he didn't know that his father was a shitty person. He thought he was over it, satisfied with the life he had. He thought he had stopped trying to reach out for his father when he managed to get his dad's email while in the hospital freshman year and all he got for the pain he experienced typing that damn thing was a short reply.
Not a visit, or a phone call, or even any attempts at trying to understand what he was going through. Just a sorry, and then nothing.
Blaine bitterly takes another swig from the bottle in his hand. It burns going down, but he's gotten used to it.
"The bastard," he mutters as he drinks, feeling like a brooding teenager. He hasn't focused on his dad for this long in years, but the conversation with Santana the week they moved in had triggered something. Now, Blaine's painfully aware that he is, indeed, another kid with daddy issues.
He's about to set his drink down and try going to bed when his phone begins to ring. Frowning, Blaine stares at the screen. It's too late for any of his friends to call, and the number doesn't pop up with a name, but alcohol has always made him curious.
"Hello?" Blaine asks as he answers, doing his best to sound perfectly sober and put together.
"Hello? Is this, uh, Blaine? Blaine Anderson?"
He considers lying, figures it could be a telemarketer with absurd hours, but his mouth is working before his brain tonight. "Yeah. Who are you?"
"You don't know me, but I'm your sister-"
"Bullshit. I don't have a sister, just one brother. He's famous, kind of. Maybe you know him?" Blaine adds in a rush, words spilling together.
The woman on the other end is silent for a few moments. "Do you...do you want me to call back tomorrow?"
"No," Blaine says. "I won't pick up. Who are you really?"
"Your sister," the woman repeats before sighing. "Look, I know this is a dumb way to tell somebody, and I wouldn't believe me if I were you. But, please. My father was Robert Anderson. He was a lawyer. You're Blaine, you're his son. I'm his daughter, Sophia."
Blaine opens his mouth for a sharp retort when he pauses, gaping for words like a fool before he finally manages to murmur, "Was?"
"Yes...that's...that's why I'm calling. Dad, uhm, he died. Last night. It was a heart attack. I, well, my mom didn't want to call you or your brother. Cooper, right? But, uh, I felt like...I felt like it was the right thing to do. She thinks so, too, now. And we're...we're inviting you to his funeral. It's in two days."
"Uhm...yeah. Okay. Email me the information, I have to go," Blaine says, rattling off his email before he hangs up.
His phone falls on the empty couch cushion and he stares at the wall in front of him, feeling suddenly cold. His father had been a basic stranger to him ever since he was a kid, but it doesn't make him feel any better. In fact, it makes him feel worse, knowing that he has a sister out there, who probably got to get to know their father through more than a woman's bitter memories.
Before he knows it, he's reaching out with one hand for the bottle he had set aside.
Tonight, he'll drink.
And tomorrow?
Who knows.