AUTHORS NOTE: Just so you guys know, I wrote this as a season 2/3 "mash up". In my story the characters are the same age as they are in the show. Kurt never went to Dalton, and Blaine has been to a different school each year. I'll try to clear things up as I go along, so you can get a picture of the time frame better!
I DO NOT OWN ANYTHING RELATED TO GLEE.
He liked to bike around at night. Just for the sheer purpose of viewing other households. He liked to peer into other realities, and out of curiosity, to see if he could spot exactly what "normal" was.
Nighttime was his blanket. It sheltered him from the few people he might run into, and it also gave him the chance to scout without anyone recognizing his face… though he was sure everyone recognized him anyway, he was out there almost every other night.
Anything to get away from his father, and biking was a release. The cold night air rose against his cheek as he glided down hill after endless hill in his new neighborhood, a sporadic bug encounter nearly startled him off his bike, but he didn't care. He was more apathetic with each sunrise.
On occasion he'd find some things of value. Whether he had to steal them or if they were willfully laid out for the garbage man to pick up… he always took what he thought valuable. Little presents just for him. Valuable for selling to a pawnshop, or perhaps proving –sometimes- to be things he could turn into DIY items.
He came to his favorite court, Buckhurst, where he passed the silhouette of a statue of Venus and a house with tiny stained glass roses on the front door windows.
He liked to think of the lives behind those windows. Warm bodies, fixed meals, and large down feather beds. He didn't really want those things. Those things would make him like everybody else. Like he used to be.
Then what would he have, charming good looks and sharp wit? HA. Who would he been then? He often spiraled into this web of dark thoughts, but he never really liked to check out to long because it only made him tired. Answers to those questions weren't vital anyways; he could figure them out later.
The only answers he was good at giving were in school, and those answers ranged from snarky comments to elaborate two paged calc problems.
He was to smart for his own good. At least that's what his teacher Mr. Kelly used to say, and-
A porch light flickered on as he circled the court, God he hated those. How could he forget it was there? He'd only been here a billion times…
He stopped for a moment, and ran his hands through his thick curly hair… hair that almost matched the dark landscape swallowing him whole. His mother had loved his hair.
His stomach jolted, and shifting his eyes from the smooth, black pavement he decided it might be time to go home. Situated on his bike so that his right leg was firmly pushing his boot to the ground, and his left still straddling the bike from the adjacent side, his dry hazel eyes shot to the porch-lit house once more.
He had guessed what was inside a million times. This was both his favorite house, and his favorite game.
A wife, a husband, probably a few father worked a 9-5. The mother had to be a trophy wife or something, and their kids almost certainly got straight A's.
He had deciphered that their son was probably the quarterback on the football team, and their daughter did ballet. He could tell, not from sight – he had never seen the family inside-, but from the stickers on the various cars in the driveway. Tonight a new sticker caught his eye: WMHS. McKinley kids.
He wondered if he could pick them out in school on Monday. Tomorrow. Shit.
He grunted. They were just another Catholic family to drive around town in their "mini van", and attend church every Sunday... nauseating. Why he had this families life so etched into his head he couldn't figure out, but every detail was so intricate and defined he had no other choice but to expand on it.
Probably because that's what his life used to be like. Well, before the incident, anyway.
He continued his thoughts, eyes fixed on the statue of Venus to his left.
The mom made "supper" every night at six and blah blah blah. A good little Catholic family… he kept repeating in his head.
He wanted to spit. I bet their sons a fag and the daughter a whore. Husband sleeping with some bitch on the side...
He turned away and considering continuing his route. A gunshot of heat spread from his stomach to his chest.
He wasn't jealous. He liked his solitude. It was the only thing constant in his life. That pain was his only reminder he was still breathing, and frankly, right now he would turn the whole world with his bare fists rather than give it away.
He squinted his eyes in the thick darkness coming in around him. It was getting late, which meant his father would A) already be passed out, or B) he was in for a blackout himself when he got home.
He wondered if his neighbors knew. Ever since his mom killed herself last year there had been a distinct silence from all of them. Sometimes they'd glance over at his house, but not the friendly kind, and no waves. Just glances.
It had been the summer after he came out to his parents, that she did it. His freshman year: The year that's supposed to pave the way to everything great about high school.
It had done just the opposite. Not only had he lost his mother, but the kids there. They were just, horrible. They hated him because of his sexuality. Every day he would go home miserable and in tears to his father, but his father never understood.
Instead he shipped him to a Prep School, because if fixing a car wouldn't turn him into a man - then maybe, just maybe – if he were educated enough, he wouldn't be gay anymore. He wouldn't be an embarrassment. He could be his son.
His neighbors knew he had been there when it happened, and had seen it occur. They probably thought he had issues himself, let alone the issues his father had.
They had to have heard the fights, seen the fists, or listened to the flesh pound into his stomach repeatedly every single night. Fuck.
This time he did spit, and just as he began to peddle again he heard a voice,
"Excuse me?"
The porch light was on again.
Carole would make the worst victim in situations like this. Finn too. They could sleep through anything. But Burt, that was a different story. He slept with one eye open. Ever since the loss of his first wife, and kids had started picking on Kurt he decided that he had to be more careful.
"Dad…" He remembered the first time Kurt had come home from school with the bruises. Burt had rushed to his side to see what was wrong. Responding to his dad's clumsy reflexes, Kurt had responded in his most delicate voice.
Kurt had put up both hands, as if ready to stop oncoming traffic (it wasn't that he, Burt, was that big… Kurt was just so small in comparison that it frightened him as a father sometimes).
"It's nothing dad. They just don't understand perfection yet. One day I'll be on Broadway laughing in all of their sad, little faces. But until then, pass me an ice pack, I'll be downstairs if you need me." The way his son's eyes lit up when he mentioned Broadway made Burt laugh to himself. Kurt was so strong. Kurt was his pillar.
Why was he up again? The light, the porch light, it was on. Right. He was so tired. The shop was busier than usual yesterday, and he really needed the sleep tonight.
Burt sat up hastily and rubbed his eyes. No time for the routine ol' man. Get up, get a shirt on, and get out there. So he did just that, and as soon as he picked up the bat he slipped out of the side door to see what had triggered the light.
It was that kid again. The one from Tranquil Lane, down the road. Jeez, this had to be the third time in the past two weeks he had been out here.
Burt felt uneasy. Originally, he had thought this guy was just curious about the area. Not now though. Something was up. There had to be a reason why he had come out here so many times. It had to be Kurt.
He looked like he was trouble. Burt wasn't usually one to judge appearance, but the kid had trouble written all over him. Thing was, it was clothing based only. If he had a shave, a haircut, and a wardrobe change he would be unmistakable for a regular, run-of-the-mill McKinley student.
Burt eyed the unlaced black ankle boots, thick untamed curls, tight black skinny jeans, and a fitted tee covered in a large leather jacket- had he just?
"Excuse me." He hadn't heard himself talk yet tonight, and the words startled him as much as they did the teen standing in front of him.
"You just spit on my car."
"Yeah?"
"You going to clean it off?"
Burt was feeling uneasy. He shouldn't have said anything. He gripped the bat from fear. Why was he scared? He had to be no older than 16, 17 at most. Burt was more than twice that in age, and Carole always prided him on being a strong surly man.
Did you just laugh at me? Did I say something funny to you, Huh? He knew he shouldn't be too hard on the kid. He had heard from neighbors that he had been through a lot in the past couple of years. He opted for other words.
Burt didn't even know his name, but he knew his story. At least he knew part of his story, from what the neighbors had inferred. Maybe he could use it to keep him away from his house?
He really didn't want to use death as a means of crossing emotional boundaries, but he had to keep his family safe if this kid was dangerous… he had to keep Kurt safe, and now Finn and Carole too. He had to be a strong father. For Carole, he thought… For Carole.
It was after Burt had made a comment about the boy's mother when he realized he had missed something big.
The other's eyes had widened, almost in shock that Burt would say something like that. Why?
They had widened because he knew who was yelling threats at him, and oh God Burt knew exactly who the boy was too.
He was almost unrecognizable now, but Burt had put a lot together in the past thirty seconds -and if this was… if this was Blaine Anderson… then, God did he regret what he just said. But, he had changed, and most definitely not in a good way. He needed to talk to the kids. He needed to talk to Kurt.
He stared. Amidst all his thoughts he hadn't noticed the side door to the house open. A tall man, neither slim nor fat slipped out, bat in hand.
Luckily the porch light was still on, because both of them immediately knew who stood before the other. Or at least, that's what Blaine thought.
When did Mr. Hummel move here? I thought he lived near his shop? Blaine was embarrassed. Luckily his scarlet cheeks couldn't be seen to well amid the porch lights and the shadows around him.
You have a new life now. That Blaine was weak. This Blaine is strong. It was a new life that he wouldn't let go, no matter how nice this man had been in his previous one.
"You just, spit on my car."
"Yeah?"
"You going to clean it off?" said the man.
He chuckled to himself "No? I'm not cleaning anything off your little conformist piece of shit scrap metal. Do it yourself."
He was surprised at how angry he'd gotten. He must have shown it on his face because the man followed him up with, "You need to readjust your attitude son, and you know it. Don't come back over here or I'll call the cops on you. Do you understand?"
"Yeah, yeah."
"I'm serious, I've seen you out here night after night. Don't think I haven't figured out what you're up to kid. The second I hear of something going missing I'm sending the law your way. You live up the street down near Tranquil Lane don't you? That mother of yours killed herself last year. Look at you. She would be disgusted."
He saw the man second-guess his last statement. It was as if he realized he had struck Blaine's last nerve. He spoke, "Bl-?" but Blaine was about to crack.
He had heard the kids at school talk about his mother like that, but never an adult. Well, never someone other than his father. He felt sick, every muscle in his body ached.
Burt Hummel had a new life too apparently. "Listen you fat fuck. Go ahead, and send the pigs over. I could care less. They're probably just as large and useless as you are. They wouldn't have proof of anything, and neither would you. You know nothing about my mother or how she died, how dare you make assumptions that just because my mom killed herself I'm going to go around stealing your worthless commercial junk."
More outside lights flicked on, "Hun? You alright?"
"Carole, that kids out here again, go inside, and tell Kurt we need to talk." Blaine made a fist. The man caught a glimpse and feeling threatened by this whispered in his fiercest tone, "My son, Kurt… stay away from here kid." White noise filled the black of the night silently hanging their words in the air.
Son? Interesting. That summer he never realized Mr. Hummel had a son. He just thought that he had been a lonely old man helping him and his dad pick out parts for their "summer project."
He strained his eyes trying to peer into the life of the stranger, but he saw nothing.
He longed to see "Kurt"… for a beautiful porcelain face. Originally, he thought the old man was packing a daughter up in those vine-encrusted windows.
A son was much, much better. He thought of his dad. Of how he reacted when Blaine had told him that he was gay. He felt even sicker than before. That aching pain had spread from his chest to his throat.
Maybe he would find this "Kurt," and teach Mr. Hummel a lesson on respecting others. He seemed pretty uptight about his son anyway, so I'm sure I can figure something out to get under his skin.
He wanted whatever he did to make Kurt cry to his daddy. He wanted to destroy Kurt inside and out. Then maybe the old man would learn a lesson or two about respecting others. Especially respecting other's deceased parents.
Other's deceased parents who happened to become deceased on their son's birthday.
I really need to get home.