Summary: Blaine wishes that he could describe the day he met Kurt as the best day of his life. Unfortunately, the discovery that slushie-encrusted boxers chafe like a mother puts a damper on things. An AU where Burt dies during "Grilled Cheesus", Kurt is left to fend for himself, and Blaine is a Warbler-in-exile.

Rating: PG-13 for some strong language and violence

A/N: This story was written for the Klaine Big Bang and could not have happened without a lot of help. If you like this story, go tell Electrictoes what a great beta job she did. She is the one to blame if this monster is at all coherent. While you're at it, check out the awesome soundtrack and cover art that Inferiarecoming put together. Thank you both. Ladies, you made this whole endeavor a hoot and a half.

The title comes from a Derek Walcott poem of the same name. Song titles are in italics since it was getting confusing trying to decipher song titles within dialogue. As always, I do not own the toys I am playing with and am not making a profit off of playing with them.

Love After Love

Blaine glared at the double-doors with his best haute stare. Rather than feeling emboldened, he found himself clutching the straps of his backpack tighter and trying to swallow past the dry tangle of his throat. This wasn't going to be like Grover T., he told himself; everything was going to be just fine. He took in a lungful of air and forced himself to drop his hands. He could do this. He nodded, pasted a big smile on his face, and tugged his vest back into place.

He was almost to the stairs when two mountains moved into place beside him. "You lost little boy? Cause the middle school is down the road."

Blaine winced, but laughed along with them. "Actually, today's my first day." He made a big show of pulling his schedule out of his bag. "Can you tell me where the guidance office is?"

"Sure," the larger of the two nodded, his eyes wide and his tone insincere. Blaine fought not to close his own eyes and tuck his head in. "We can show you a shortcut." A heavy hand bracketed each shoulder and tugged him away from the safety of the front doors.

Blaine nattered on, trying to draw out the moment. Eventually, the other boys started to look away. Blaine couldn't tell if they were scoping out a place to dump his body or if he was embarrassing them enough that they might let him go. Carefully, he reached into his bag, took out his phone and dialed himself.

"Oh," he jumped and pretended to check the number. "My dad," he whispered to his audience. "Hi, what's up?" He jerked his shoulders free and started to walk away. "Hold on a sec, Dad. I'll see you guys later. Thanks again!" He kept his phone to his ear until he was safely inside the school.

See, not so bad, he told himself as he slid his phone back in his bag. "I can totally do this." The smile stretched into a real one, full of teeth.

That's why it really hurt when he got a face full of cherry-flavored ice.

"Welcome to McKinley High, midget."

...

Blaine's first day was spent in a pink-tinged t-shirt and sticky underwear. His hair was curled free of its gel. The soles of his shoes caught at the floor in embarrassingly loud squeaks. And every single teacher made him stand in front of the class and introduce himself. Blaine had had nightmares like this, he was sure.

"Bonjour. Je m'appelle Blaine Anderson."

"Bonjour Blaine," a few dutiful students replied.

Madame Touton gestured towards an empty seat in front of one of the boys from this morning. He glanced around and found another empty seat next to the class sleeper. Blaine dropped his books, startling the other boy. He caught a flash of blue before the boy rolled his head in the other direction. Blaine glanced away and watched as the rest of the class quickly looked away. Weird.

"M. Hummel?"

"Oui," came the muttered reply.

"Un bon nuit?"

"Une bonne vie."

"M. Hummel," she chastised.

"Oui, Madame," the boy sighed in response and sat up.

Blaine risked a glance undercover of his bangs. "Burt" the boy's shirt read. It was a little big on him and well-worn. There were places where the collar had torn or a sleeve hem had unraveled, but the defects had been repaired with a delicate touch. Maybe it was a hand-me down, Blaine guessed. The boy's long, thin hands had dirt under the nails, but the nails were smooth and polished. He was sleeping in class, but when Madame asked for the homework, his was a neatly typed essay compared to the chicken scratched paragraphs of his peers. The contradictions were almost enough to make him forget about his clothing. Almost. If nothing else, he was glad that he didn't have to walk home later. Sugar-encrusted boxers chafed like a mother.

"Fuck ma vie," Blaine muttered to his desk. It was just a glimpse out of the corner of his eye, but he could have sworn he saw Hummel's lips twitch up in a wry smile. When he turned to look, it was gone, the other boy staring straight ahead. Blaine slumped down in his seat and spent the rest of French trying to unglue his sticky boxers from the inside of his thigh without simply reaching down and grabbing himself awkwardly.

...

It was while he was packing up for home that he glimpsed the final stage of torture a la McKinley. The halls felt suspiciously empty, the noise level lower than it had been the rest of the day. Blaine glanced around as the hairs on the back of his neck rose. He caught a flash of red out of the corner of his eye and heard a loud clang and a startled cry.

He picked up his speed, shoving books into his backpack. It wasn't going to be fast enough. "Think, Blaine," he told himself. Desperately, he looked for a teacher or a small group. No one. What was the deal with this school?

Footsteps lumbered closer. Silently, he counted. A rush of air and a further drop in sound. He spun, ducking down as he went. A loud crash sounded above him. "Darn it, I'm such a klutz." He mimed picking up a book as he waited for the other boy to recover from his headlong collision with the locker, then tried to feign surprise at seeing the boy behind him.

"Oh my, are you okay?" He reached a hand up to touch a gash on the dazed boy's forehead.

The other boy jerked out of his reach. "Get off me you spic!"

Blaine couldn't help it. He started to laugh. It made the other kid's cheeks burn red, but Blaine couldn't stop. The stress of the day, the absurdity of everything, and now some kid was calling him a spic. He couldn't decide whether to be insulted or amused. On one hand, the boy was discriminating against not one, but two cultures. On the other hand, it was hard to feel threatened or hurt by this level of ignorance. It was perfect. It burned away any fear he felt, because really, there was no way that this was his life.

The other boy grabbed Blaine by his lapels and lifted him up. It just made Blaine laugh harder. "What is so fucking funny?"

"I'm…I'm Filipino," Blaine laughed. "Does anybody really do this kind of stuff anymore? 'What's so fucking funny?"" he mimicked. Blaine couldn't breathe. "What's so fucking funny, punk!"

The other boy dropped him as if he was worried that the crazy was catching. "You better stop laughing, or I'll…" he raised his fist to back up his threat.

Blaine fought to push the laughter down and uncurl his smile. "You know," he interrupted in as serious a tone as he could manage. "Most bullies suffer from low self-esteem and they bully as a way to make themselves feel better. Do you want to talk about it?" He reached out a hand to squeeze the boy's shoulder.

"Don't touch me. I don't want your fucking faggy germs on me." The slur killed the effervescence bubbling up inside of him. The laughter dropped away. Instead, something darker rolled in to its place. Blaine nodded to himself. The normal restrictions need not apply.

"What's your name?"

No answer.

"Dan, then? May I call you, Dan? Let me school you on a few things. One, I believe the term you are looking for is 'homosexual.' Or perhaps 'gay.' I personally prefer 'gay' just because I'm generally a happy kind of a guy, you know?" He stepped a little closer to 'Dan the man' and fought down the crowing joy in his throat. The other boy swallowed when his back hit the lockers. "Secondly, Dan, I don't have cooties. I get my shots and everything. Don't you?" Blaine could have cheered to see someone so big try to shrink in on himself. This was what he had hoped for. When he had been a ghost in his own home, this was what he had wished for. He felt every inch of his skin now. There was nothing that anyone could do to him ever again. "Thirdly, you should really get that looked at." He reached up again to the gash on the other boy's forehead.

"Don't touch me," came the panicked response and suddenly he was on the ground and his head hurt and his back hurt and things weren't so funny anymore. He watched with disinterest as the other boy ran. Perfect, he told himself. Just perfect.

With a tired sigh, he pulled himself to his feet and finished getting his homework together. His jacket, zipped up, would cover the worst of the stains, he decided. At least he would be able to sneak in without worrying Grandma and Grandpa. A final adjustment to his backpack and he trudged out the door, his feet squeaking on the linoleum.

"That was so awesome," he heard a girl whisper to her neighbor. He spared her a small smile before ducking his head. It had been totally awesome, he told himself. He tried to recall that brief moment of triumph. He could use it as a touchstone tomorrow when, he was sure, all hell would break loose. At least, for once in his life, he hadn't been a coward. The smile stayed a little longer this time.