This isn't a second chapter so much as a companion peice from Blaine's Perspective.
I'm going to McKinley's Prom for exactly two reasons: Because of how fast Kurt's face fell when he thought I didn't want to go with him and because of how deliriously happy he'd looked when I said yes.
The fact that he asked actually totally blew me away, and it shouldn't have. Everything about Prom screams "Kurt". Big cheesy romantic night, dressing up, and music? Of course he wanted to go. But, yeah. It didn't occur to me… because it's not the kind of thing I would think of going to anymore.
Kurt can be a little… I don't want to say self centered. It's more like he understands everything with himself at the center, he's sort of really deep inside his own perspective sometimes. He doesn't get that he and I going to Prom together could be an issue because it's not an issue to him. I almost don't want to answer his "What about Prom, Blaine?" because… his perspective on this is exactly what everyone's perspective should be and I don't want to taint that for him. But at some point we tacitly agreed to this honesty pact and I won't be the first to break it.
So I tell him the first half of the Sadie Hawkins story. Went with a friend, got beaten up. I try to blow through the story as fast as possible. Shrug it off. I don't want Kurt, of all people, to be another person who sees me as the kid that got beaten for going to a dance. But it's stupid to pretend with Kurt, because he gets it.
And this is the amazing thing about Kurt. When he does see your side, he'll do anything for you. He gave up a solo he really worked hard for and really wanted for his dad. He's ready to give up Prom for me. Kurt was even willing to give up a shot at having the upper hand for Karofsky. Because he understood.
In Kurt's shoes, I would have had the news about Karofsky in the school paper five minutes after he kissed me. I would have had it in the town's paper. I'd have run down the hallways yelling at the top of my lungs. I'd put it in skywriting. Smoke signals. Anything. But I don't have Kurt's compassion.
I can't take something so important away from a guy that awesome. And his school is not my school. If he thinks we're safe, we'll probably be safe. And neither of us is actually afraid of someone calling us queers or faggots or whatever. And it might be fun. Prom. With my boyfriend.
But I don't have Kurt's courage, so I'm still afraid. And I don't have Kurt's optimism, so I'm worried. And I don't have Kurt's family so I have to spend the rest of the night putting together a plan to convince my mom to let me go to Prom with him.
Because in the second half of the Sadie Hawkins story I get transferred to Dalton. The dance had been on a Saturday and my first day at Dalton was Tuesday. Kurt thought starting halfway through the semester had been hard? He hadn't had to do it with a black eye, a split lip and a sprained shoulder.
That's probably why I was so excited about Kurt when I first saw him at Dalton. I thought I could be his mentor the way that David had been mine. I thought I could help him out and teach him what I knew and help him accept himself and help myself wash away the complete mortification of the first couple weeks there, and of finding out that while every single one of Dalton's very rare new kids was assigned a mentor, I was the only one whose mentor had continued to walk him places and help him with homework and whatever else a month longer than the obligatory week, because everyone had just felt so bad for me.
Kurt transferring meant I didn't have to be the new kid anymore, and there would be one (cute, gay, musical) guy at Dalton who didn't remember me sitting silently in the back of classes, trying to dab my bloody lip as surreptitiously as possibly.
But my parents remember it, and, for all of us, it's so much more than a sore spot.
I start gently cornering my mom before Dad gets home. If I explain it to him it'll never happen. My dad is not Kurt's dad. I need to get my mom on my side first, so that she'll convince him for me.
I need to stress that this is different than the Sadie Hawkins dance. I can't tell her that Kurt and I can take care of ourselves. She won't believe me. But maybe after two years of Dalton she'll believe that we've got friends going with and that will make us okay.
At first I just casually mention Finn. That he's Kurt's step brother and he's a football player and he's in Glee and how Finn and I watch football sometimes when I'm over at Kurt's house.
I work the Bullywhips into conversation, making it sound like they've been around forever instead of for the last week and a half, and in no way mentioning that it was mostly a gimmick to get Santana elected prom queen, or that last night, after Kurt had found out about the thing at Sadie Hawkins, I'd let my walls fall a little bit and flat out begged him to never let Karofsky walk him to his car, to never leave the actual school building with him.
I show her the picture that Kurt texted me, of all the Glee guys in their zombie football uniforms. Explain how there was a whole Football/Glee alliance for McKinley's championship, reiterate that Kurt's step brother is a ten foot tall jock and then tell her that Kurt asked me to go to Prom with him.
She bites her lip and looks sort of through the phone, and just when I'm sure she's going to say no, she says, "So… Kurt."
"Kurt," I repeat, my heartbeat starting up a little too hard. She's going to say no and I'm going to have to tell him that my parents won't let me go and he's going to get upset.
"Is he…" I wait for her to finish, until I'm pretty sure she's not going to.
"Gay?" I ask quietly. I've… edited Kurt a little when I talk about him. Okay, I've edited Kurt a lot when I talk about him, but it seems like asking if I can go to Prom with him should fill in at least a couple of the details.
"Special," she finishes, clearing her throat a little. "To you?"
"Yeah, Mom. He's really special."
I feel terrible about only telling her now and not even really saying it. I'm so full of crap telling Kurt stuff like "courage" and "I'm out and I'm proud" when, anywhere that doesn't involve being surrounded by the Warblers, or increasingly the New Directions, all I really do is not outright lie. Kurt and I have been dating for almost two months, but I haven't told my parents that. I don't lie about where I am. They know that I'm at Kurt's pretty much every day after school, and they know that Kurt is a boy I met at Dalton and that his father owns a tire store. They might not have known he's gay, but it's not I'd hidden it, or like they would forbid me to see him. We just don't talk about stuff like this in my house.
Not like they do at Kurt's house. Kurt and I both have a complete catalogue of the last couple years of vogue, but I buy mine at the drug store and keep them in a desk drawer. Not hidden, just out of sight. Kurt gets his delivered to the house and tries to explain photo essays to Mr. Hummel, who will actually listen, even if his response is always something like "Okay, but if the whole point is pretty girls in pretty dresses, how does this appeal to you? And why does their hair look like that?"
When my parents and I talk about the Warblers it usually devolves into making sure that all that show choir stuff isn't distracting me from my grades and a reminder that my grades weren't great when I started at Dalton. Kurt's dad actually listened to him practice "Don't Cry For Me Argentina".
And Kurt had told his father that we were dating. A couple days after Kurt and I had this sort of weird conversation making it official, Kurt and I were studying at his house, and Mr. Hummel had gotten home, sat down across from us at the table to take his boots off and just given me this appraising look (which I know I deserved after the drinking thing and the sex talk thing) and just said, "So… you two are…like… an item now?" I must have turned absolutely purple before nodding, and he just reached across the table, slapped me on the arm and said, "You boys keep the door open, okay?" before going into the living room to watch TV. Kurt had laughed at me for looking so panicked.
And, as amazing as Kurt's family is, when he comes downstairs in his studded, cropped tuxedo jacket, kilt, leggings and those amazing boots that he wears with everything, I have to wonder if their total acceptance is really helping him in Lima, Ohio.
He looks great, and he looks so happy, and everything about it is so Kurt that I can't help but grin like an idiot. But it also just terrifies me. When Taylor and I had gone to Sadie Hawkins we'd been in jeans and T-shirts. Sometimes I wish Kurt was… not afraid to stick out, but more aware that he didn't have to. I've been working out what to wear ever since Mr. Hummel offered to try and get us discounts on tuxes. I just want to look like everyone else. My one concession to Kurt's desire for flair is that I'm going to get us carnation boutonnieres. He'll love that.
I'm relieved when Mr. Hummel says he doesn't like it and I try as tactfully as possible to agree, not expecting the look Kurt shoots me that practically screams "Betrayer!"
When Kurt starts talking about how it's just like everyone else's clothes, and how he's done everything right, I realize that he really does think everything is fine and that nothing can happen to him. Just because he's got Karofsky under control. And I'm trying to believe him, until he mentions what happened to me and I can't help but squirm, because they actually talk about things in Kurt's house, and that means Finn and Mr. Hummel look at me as the kid that got beaten for going to a dance too. And they know that I'm not…like Kurt and this might be…more dangerous for Kurt than it was for me.
I give it another try at the tux shop. Maybe if he sees how gorgeous he looks in a tux he'll reconsider. But he's clearly already made up his mind, and I feel bad about my little slip. So when he sets the tux that he clearly hates down on the counter, in front of the guy that's been laughing at him since he walked in, I can't do it.
What kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn't want him to be himself?
I leave my tux at the Hudmel's house on purpose, I just don't want to make a big deal out of this at my house. I don't lie. I'm going to Kurt's, we're gonna get dinner, we're going to the dance, we're going to Puck's and then I'm staying at Kurt's house. My dad nods, my mom tells me to have a nice night and I bolt for my car.
Kurt is getting ready in his room when I show up, and I'm glad that the potential awkwardness of waiting downstairs for him is fixed by needing to go change myself. I feel like if I can just keep moving forward toward the dance itself I won't have to focus on trying not to remember the last one. If I focus on buttoning my shirt, I won't be having little flutters in my stomach like echoes of a Doc Marten to the solar plexus. If I make a production of slipping my jacket on just right I won't be comparing the slide of cheap polyester lining over my arms to the scrape of concrete. The sound of Finn humming is not the sound of Taylor yelling for help.
I expect changing with Finn to be weirder than it is, not for me, I do go to an all boys school, but for him. Kurt's mentioned what happened when the two of them shared a room. But Finn just turns his back to me and doesn't seem to care.
The only awkward moment is when he turns around and goes "Hey man, do you mind helping me tie this?" while holding the ends of his bow tie in a way that's so adorably helpless that I can almost see what Kurt must have seen in him, even though Finn is so, so not my type. It's also adorable because it means Kurt must have gone out and gotten him a real bow tie.
"Sorry, I don't know how to tie a bow tie," I tell him, pointing at my own tie, which I tied just like the one on my Dalton uniform. His eyes widen weirdly for a moment and he drops his gaze to the floor.
"Oh… sorry."
I'm about to ask Finn if he's apologizing for thinking that all gay men can tie a bow tie, which is definitely the weirdest stereotype I've ever heard, but he just walks out of the room. I hear him knock on Kurt's door and ask outside the door. "Hey, Kurt? Can you tie my bow tie?"
I go downstairs. Carol claps her hands when I hit the bottom step, and hurries toward me.
"Oh, don't you just look so handsome!" she gushes. I pull back in surprise bit when she sets her hands on either side of my face, but stop myself in time. She pats my hair and lets me go.
Kurt's house really isn't my house and it makes me sad sometimes. I always thought my parents handled me coming out pretty well. Taylor's parents had flipped. He'd been sent to a therapist and grounded and pretty much treated like he was sick until his parents gave up on trying to change him. Or talk to him, or acknowledge him or really do anything but continue to feed and clothe him.
My parents hadn't been thrilled, but they weren't that upset. It was actually something they just seemed to ignore. It wasn't like they ignored me, we all just kind of… left this part of me out of conversations, which wasn't that hard, even when my dad drug home the frame of a car and a big crate of parts and declared a heretofore undiscovered love of vintage Chevys. And it wasn't like I had a boyfriend to talk about back then and sometimes it was just too hard to talk about Taylor. Then when I'd transferred to Dalton it had been sort of the same. I wasn't the gay Warbler, like Kurt had seemed so intent on being at first. I was Junior Member Blaine Anderson First Soloist (the new kid who had shown up beat to hell). And I could be a little… gayer at Dalton if I felt like it. If Wes and David and Thad were waxing poetic about every inch of Emma Watson, I could add a footnote about Tom Felton and they would listen. They didn't exactly agree. But they'd nod. It was enough.
But the way Mr. Hummel comes up to me, slaps me on the arm and says, "Looking sharp, kid." Then sort of shifts me away from Carol and slips me thirty bucks for dinner with a warning that he will find out if I give it to Puck for booze reminds me that there is a difference between "tolerance" and "acceptance" and kind of makes me feel like a complete tool for ever thinking I could've mentored Kurt.
The phone rings again and Mr. Hummel goes to answer it as Finn comes downstairs next. He gets the same treatment from Carol, plus a kiss, but he actually can tug away from her.
It's a little awkward to sit on the couch waiting for Kurt while Finn gets Quinn's corsage out of the fridge and Mr. Hummel disappears on the phone a couple more times but it's totally worth it to see Kurt come downstairs, flushed with glee, his outfit finished and his hair clearly the masterpiece he was hoping for when he sat down to do it earlier. The happy flush across his face when I take our carnations out of my overnight bag might be the single most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
Carol insists on pictures, a ton of pictures, and I sit on the couch while she gets pictures of Finn in his tux, and Kurt in his and then pictures of the brothers together before she ushers me up with a wave of her hand.
Kurt puts his hand on the small of my back and just for that moment, when Kurt and I are just teenagers in formal wear for the first time, getting our Prom pictures taken by parents, I can see the world from Kurt's perspective, and I let my hopes get up a little bit too.
I don't know why I'm always surprised at how quickly I got accepted into the New Directions clique, or why I always forget that even the unlikeliest of them watch out for each other. I mean, I go to a school where the hardest part of convincing about twenty teenage guys to go sing a dirty song to a guy for me at his work was convincing them that no one would be killed in a plane crash.
At the very least you'd think I would remember just how incestuous the whole thing is and realize when Puck gets off stage and sidles up to me that I am Puck's best friend's stepbrother's boyfriend. Or that my boyfriend is the best friend of two of Puck's ex-girlfriends. Or that my boyfriend's stepbrother is currently dating the mother of Puck's child.
Anyway, I shouldn't be so surprised when he comes up to talk to me, dropping his hand onto my shoulder with an air of camaraderie.
Although I don't think any amount of second hand familiarity would have prepared me for what he says to me, which is, "So, Blaine Warbler, reservations at Puckzilla's B and B- Booze and Beds- are filling up fast. Lauren and I obviously have my room, and Mike and Tina just called my parent's room, so unless you want to get yours and Hummel's freak on in my little sister's Cinderella sheets, I suggest you lock down the spare bedroom before Brittany successfully removes someone from their date."
I'm not totally sure if he's messing with me or not. Why in the hell he is he asking me, who he barely knows, if I want to have sex in his house tonight instead of Kurt, who he actually knows? There's a break in the crowd as I wonder about this and I catch a glimpse of Kurt and Mercedes. Kurt's twirling for her to show off his outfit.
Oh. Puck thinks Kurt's "the girl". And as annoying as that should be, it's a little hard to hold something like that against a decidedly alpha, former jock/bully/football player dude who just offered me and my boyfriend first dibs on a non-princess bedroom to "get our freak on" on Prom night.
"Uh, yeah. Let's lock that down."
Puck grins, pulls his hand off my shoulder and pulls it back, forming a fist at just about the level of my face.
I flinch.
Puck looks at me like I'm completely insane, grabs my wrist and brings my hand up. I realize about half way up that he is attempting to fist bump me. Knuckles to knuckles, not knuckles to face.
"Thanks Puck New Directions," I laugh, hoping my little moment of being a kicked puppy comes off as just being some confused private school guy not down with what the kids are doing these days.
"I got your back," Puck responds, "And now, I have a date with Coach Sylvester's punch bowl."
I shove the fact that I'm not nearly as over my issues as I want to be down pretty hard as Puck walks away, which is helped by a sudden, fun little jitter down my spine. Spare bedroom and a super late curfew? That's got potential. I mean, even with as badly as he wanted the outfit and the dinner and the dance, there is no way in any circle of hell Kurt is going to succumb to the sex on prom night cliché. We aren't ready.
And that's okay. We're…you know, doing more than I ever want Mr. Hummel to find out about. Kurt has more than proved to himself that he is not a baby penguin, and I've realized how sexy he is when he isn't trying to be, but we aren't ready and I'm not going to lose my virginity in Puck's spare bedroom listening to the New Directions getting drunk (or, from what I understand, Tina's… enthusiasm) either. I've got a pretty extensive fantasy about how that is going to go, and this isn't it.
I go join Kurt and Mercedes at their table just as Mercedes spots me, winks, and goes off to join Rachel and Jesse. I can't figure out if Mercedes likes me or not. I know the first time we met hadn't gone great. Kurt's told me that she's playing the single and strong card pretty hard, and it's not like I don't realize the extent to which I impinge on her and Kurt's best friend time.
"Puck wasn't trying to get you to spike the punch was he?" Kurt asks, "Cause if he's going to play the "he doesn't even go here card" then he should get Jesse to do it."
"Uh, no. Uh…He… uhh-"
"He, uh, what?" Kurt asks, grinning.
"I reserved his spare bedroom. For tonight. For us."
Kurt bites his lip.
"Don't worry," I tell him immediately. "I'm not expecting anything. We don't have to do anything more… you know, than usual. We don't have to do anything at all. I just thought, you know, some privacy might be… fun. I can go cancel if you want me to."
Kurt clears his throat and shoots me one of those flirty side long looks that make my mouth go dry, and I wonder for a second if Puck knows something I don't. Then I realize how weird that would be.
"Umm… actually, with some privacy, a little bit more might be on the table," Kurt says, with a blush and a shrug.
"Really?" I ask, trying not to let my imagination go into overdrive, but definitely realizing that I have absolutely no clue how to take a kilt off, and vaguely considering going to the bathroom to google it on my phone. "Like…what?"
Kurt shrugs and laughs, that same little happy but sort of awkward laugh he had when he admitted he was nervous at Regionals.
"Don't make me draw you a diagram, Blaine," he says.
"You want me to go get you some punch before Puck gets to it?"
"Sure."
I'm having fun. Every time Kurt asks me if I'm okay, I mean it more when I tell him I fine. He was right, this didn't have to be about fear. This didn't have to be about anything but joy.
The Sadie Hawkins dance had almost been… about anger, I guess. Taylor and I just hitting our limit and just needing to be like, yeah, you know what, we're everything you say we are. Deal with it. I really don't like who I was back at my own school, and I know that Taylor didn't help that.
If I had been here with Kurt a couple months ago, before he came to Dalton, I could see how it might have been the same thing for us. But that's not who Kurt is, and it looked like he might have been right after all. No one had said anything. People weren't even looking at us weird once everyone had seen the kilt. I mean, it's not like we were shoving it in their faces or anything, but we were obviously here together and… people did seem indifferent.
Maybe everyone seeing what happened when one of their own actually had to leave school because of the rampant bullying, maybe when it looked like the lead tormentor had seen the light to the extent that he was walking Kurt to class and crying out apologies that someone must have seen, maybe it did make a difference.
I'm still trying to convince myself of this when I look up at the clock and realize that if I want the slow dance I have spent the last week of math class fantasizing about, I need to get up the guts to ask for the next one, because it'll probably be my last chance.
The music slows and I'm convincing myself to hold out my hand, but instead of a recorded track or one of the New direction's performances (I'm pretty sure Artie had called dibs on a slow number), Figgins goes up to the mic.
It's sort of sad when Karfosky wins. As he goes up to get the crown and Santana leans over to sneer something at Quinn I can't help picturing Santana and Karofsky going out for that King and Queen slow dance, their smiles about winning looking like smiles about each other. It feels like a little victory for the closet.
For like five seconds, until I realize that that in a couple days, maybe even by this time tomorrow, Santana and Karofsky will both have thrown those cheap plastic crowns away, and gone back to lying and being miserable all of the time. And that Kurt and I, no matter what people might whisper about behind our backs, each got to go to prom, as ourselves, with a person we care about so much. And they can't take that away from us.
And then they try.
Kurt freezes at the announcement. Not like he just stops moving, but like his whole body turns to ice.
I guess… I really did expect him to just march up there, glare everyone down, spout off some witty and acerbic one liner… like " Off with your heads" or… "you all know I rule" whatever.
This is a guy I have seen walk out of his house in something that I'm pretty sure was a straight jacket. Who got himself on the football team just to follow through on a lie to his father that he hadn't even told, and then won the game. Who put together a Barbra Streisand-vention in the middle of the North Hills Mall. Who used to tell football players twice his size that they would be working for him one day as they tossed him into dumpsters.
But then I see his face, and see how it doesn't unfreeze and see the step he takes backward.
And he runs.
And I run.
And my first thought isn't "Oh poor Kurt" or "You're all going to regret this". It's "Oh god, don't go outside into the dark."
I've been telling myself all week that all I want in the world is to be as brave as Kurt is. Even more than I don't want Kurt to need to be so brave. But I don't manage it. When I walk out onto the dance floor, where Kurt is standing, surrounded by a hostile crowd, I am terrified.
In the slow dance I imagined, we were hand in hand, hip to hip, Kurt's head resting on my shoulder, which even in the fantasy I knew was stupid, because he's like four inches taller than me, but we were slowly turning to the music, not caring if anyone was watching, just listening to each other's breathing.
This is like a terrible cover band version of that. Kurt is looking around him, like he cares what any of these disgusting red necks think, and my heart is beating so hard that I'm pretty sure he can feel it, even from a few inches away. His smile isn't quite right, the way he's so rigid under my hands isn't quite right, and as much as we put on a show, let these fucking hicks see that they can't touch him, this isn't what I wanted, and I'm just relieved when the dance ends and the New Directions all head out into the parking lot.
I guess I don't realize how not okay he still is until he tosses me his car keys. There's a lot about Kurt that I write off as adorably eccentric, but he is genuinely just weird about his car. If we're going to make out after a play or go park somewhere, he makes me drive my car. Finn isn't even allowed touch Kurt's car, let alone be inside it.
"Kurt?" I ask as we climb inside and I hit the locks.
"Don't ask me if I'm okay," Kurt croaks, pulling the crown off his head and holding it between his knees.
"We don't have to go to this party."
"Yes. We do."
"Kurt, I know they hurt you. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said it was just a joke."
"Blaine! Just… please," his voice is harsh again, low and raspy and nothing like that sort of high angelic breathiness that makes him exquisite when he sings, and I just… I don't know how to help.
"I can't… can't do this right now. I just… look, we can deal with this later, right now we are going to Puck's party, we are going to have a drink with our friends, and then we'll go home and we can deal with this then. Or actually in the morning. Not now."
I put the car in drive, creeping very carefully out of his parking spot just in case some dumb kid in their beater is zipping around the lot.
"Do you want me to stay sober, drive you home?"
He laughs, mirthlessly, "I want us to have a normal prom night."
I loop the car around Puck's block a couple times, pretending to be lost, but really just giving Kurt a little time to steel himself. I think he figures it out, but he doesn't say anything.
I didn't realize that doing that meant we'd be the last ones to arrive.
Kurt's hailed like a returning hero when we walk inside. Sam claps and yells out "Long Live the Queen!" Quinn grabs the crown out of his hands and puts it on his head, Puck hands him a glass, slapping Kurt hard on the back with a "You deserve this more than all those dumb shits, bro."
Kurt smiles, a sort of plastic smile that isn't him, that no one else seems to notice. And I go change to give him a little time to let the face grin set. The more he drinks, the more shrill and fake it gets, and the more I drink the more upset I get about it.
I do what I can. When Puck and Lauren declare that they cornered Jacob Ben Israel and patted him down for his tape recorder and his notebook, that they will find out who spearheaded the write in campaign, and that their vengeance will be swift and terrible, I slip both the tape recorder and the notebook into my cardigan pocket and leave it in Quinn's purse. I feel like she's the best person to trust with that, considering her recent public humiliations and the fact that she really wanted to be Prom Queen. When Puck and Sam have put the crown back on his head a couple more times I pull it off and wear it for a while, then start passing it around to the girls, saying something about them all being beautiful girls who should all get a chance at the crown.
And when Puck refills his glass, and Kurt sits on my lap and spills most of it on me, I take the glass out of his hands, take a sip, and realize that he's drinking vodka with just enough coke in it to make it brown.
I finish it to keep it away from him, and then I call Finn.
The ride back to the Hudmels is super awkward. Apparently no one even texted Finn to let him know what had happened, so when I have to explain it, Finn is just raging pissed off. Then we all have to squeeze onto the bench seat of Finn's tiny pickup, which is made just a little bit more awkward, because Kurt seems to have gone from fakely haughty and defiant to just blank. He leans back on the seat, staring up at the roof of the car, holding my hand, not talking the whole way back.
"Thank you for pickningnus up Finn," Kurt slurs politely as we step into his and Finn's foyer.
"Yeah, man," Finn says, his voice…soft and sad in a way I wouldn't have expected from him as he carefully plucks the crown off Kurt's head and loops it over his arm. "Come on, let's just get you upstairs."
"Wait-" Kurt says, burping and holding up a hand in a way that is not…unregal, "I have to take my boots off first."
He bends over and tips forward. Finn and I both duck to catch him before he face plants into the steps and pull him back up.
"Okay, my boots are spinning to fast to take them off," he declares.
"Don't worry about it," Finn says.
"Yeah, come on," I agree.
I loop one of Kurt's arms over my shoulders, and Finn tries to do the same until he realizes he's just too tall. We start up the stairs together, me carrying a decent amount of Kurt's pretty negligible weight over my shoulders, Finn sort of bracing his other side.
We're halfway up the stairs when we realize just how loud Kurt's boots are on the stairs, but don't have any real choice but to keep going.
"Oh no, it's spinning up here too."
"Shhh…" Finn says, pulling the crown off his arm and setting it on the banister, "You have to be quiet, our parents are sleeping."
"Right…shhh," Kurt agrees. Finn lets go of him and Kurt leans into me, unsteady, but still with his back ramrod straight, as Finn pulls his bedroom door open.
Finn and I pull him inside his room and set him on his bed, which he drops back onto heavily.
"Ow. Studs," Kurt offers muzzily shifting his weight in his jacket, which must be uncomfortable.
"We will get your pajamas," I tell him softly, shooting Finn a look that I hope he understands means 'please don't leave me alone to undress my drunk boyfriend when I am supposed to be on the couch and your father is three doors down the hallway'.
Finn nods, goes to his dresser and pulls out Kurt's completely charming Gene Kelly silk pajamas that I half think Kurt only pretends to wear, like he's got ratty flannels hidden away somewhere that he doesn't want anyone to know about. It's possible that I've spent too much time thinking about what Kurt sleeps in.
Kurt starts a little bit and works himself back up to sitting as Finn settles down on the other side of him on the bed and starts unbuttoning Kurt's perfectly folded pajamas.
"I can't sleep in this, it'll wrinkle," he yawns, attempting to unbutton his jacket and shirt and failing utterly.
"Here. Let me," I murmur, taking his shoulders in my hands and pushing him onto his back as carefully as I can. I unbutton his shirt, subconsciously making little tsking noises that I know I picked up from the time Thad snuck in a bottle of scotch and he and Wes got completely smashed and David and I had to put them to bed before they got expelled.
Finn shoots me a wide eyed sort of look when I pull the shirt open and it takes me a moment to remember the big, (still purple apparently) hickey on Kurt's clavicle that may or may not have something to do with Mr. Hummel working late on Thursday.
"Dude-"
"Not now, Finn," I say, as nicely as I can manage, because seriously? What does he think Kurt and I do? Hold hands and talk about shoes? We lift Kurt back off the bed, get him out of his tux jacket and shirt and into his pajama shirt then lay him back down to button the shirt back up. He groans.
"How are you doing, Kurt?"
He opens his eyes and looks at me like I'm not quite in focus, "Not great."
"Uhhh…" Finn says and we share an awkward glance at Kurt's kilt, which neither of us wants to take off, or know how to take off, and which we obviously can't let him sleep in.
"Kurt, can you stand up?"
"Boots," he mutters.
"Kilt?" I ask.
"It's gotta zipper," he replies, "Under the buckles."
"Okay."
"I've gotta get up."
Finn and I help him up and he fumbles around his waist, trying to grab the ends of the straps which I finally reach for.
"Hey," he says, putting his hand on my chest and holding me back.
"Sorry." I shrink back a little. He totally let me unzip his jeans earlier this week, even if that it didn't really go anywhere. Of course… his brother wasn't there for that.
"I have to take my boots off first, guys," he says, and I realize he's got a point. He lurches forward and we stop him, and both kneel down on either side of him, each taking a boot. Kurt watches us with fond amusement as we fumble with his complicated clothing.
There is a light tapping sensation on my head, and I realize Kurt is patting my hair. I smile up at him.
"I really love these boots," he sighs, his hand sliding from my hair to my cheek and dropping off my face.
Well. It's better than him making fun of my gel again.
"Dude, how do you dance in these, seriously?" Finn marvels, tugging Kurt's left boot off and hefting it up, feeling the weight. I'm with him, no wonder Kurt's got such nice legs.
Okay, I definitely should not have finished his drink.
Kurt falls forward a little bit, and laughs at Finn, a creepy, dead sort of laugh, made creepier by how sudden a change it is, like in the last few seconds he's completely run out of steam and it's the only sound he can think to make.
"Like a Queen, Finn. I dance in these like a Queen," he falls back on the bed, muttering, "fairy, lady boy, queer, fudge packer, faggot."
"Kurt… don't," Finn and I say, nearly at the same time, but he's drunk and he's gone… and he's… he's kept this front up all night, it's just too much to think he can still do it.
"They all hate me," he says, still in that dead tone.
"Come on. Let's just… let's just get you in your pajamas, let's get you to sleep." Even Finn sounds like he's close to tears now and I'm not sure how much longer I'll hold out.
Kurt doesn't resist this time as I unzip the kilt and Finn and I tug it off. After a quick glance at each silently agree to leave the leggings on and just slip his pajama pants on over them. Finn holds him up under the arms while I slip the pants up around his waist and tie them off.
At no point in that last couple months had I thought I would be this proud of myself for getting Kurt into clothes.
"Fuck," Kurt groans, "And Karofsky was right. That sucks." He gulps weirdly and Finn's brows knit together.
"What does Karofsky have to do with this?"
I look guilty. I know I look guilty.
"Kurt?" I say warningly. If he lets this secret slip he's going to regret it. Not least of all because Finn will probably flip out and go tell his father right now.
"I don't feel good," Kurt says, doing that gulp again.
"You gonna barf?" Finn asks.
"Yes."
We manhandle him to the bathroom and drop him in front of the toilet. I'm a little surprised when Finn drops down on the other side of him, but I shouldn't be. If anything is a brother moment, this is, and it's sweet the way Finn sets his hand on Kurt's back.
It's officially the worst prom night ever already when the alarm that I set on my phone goes off, denoting the latest that I could have Mr. Hummel call my parents and assure them that I was home and sober and on the couch.
I try to just duck in and out, but the door opens behind me, and Kurt snarls something at Finn and everyone's up.
I realize by the time I convince Mr. Hummel and Carol to go downstairs that wanting to keep Mr. Hummel out of the bathroom is more about me than it is about Kurt. I'm just in "bad things happen to gay guys at dances" mode and it just seems like it won't be as bad for Kurt if his father doesn't see what happened to him. Like it would have been so much easier at Dalton if they hadn't seen bruises. I just want to spare Kurt that.
I start out explaining the way I would explain it to my father. It's not that big a deal, it wasn't that dramatic, I leave out how Kurt looked when they read it off, I leave out the couple cheers and snickers that I think I'm just going to pretend I didn't hear at all… but as I keep going, I realize that talking to Mr. Hummel is different than talking to my father, the same way it was different when I went and gave him my embarrassing, and frankly over rehearsed speech about how if he didn't talk to Kurt no one ever would.
Mr. Hummel is listening, without doing the thing my dad does where you can tell he's braced for the flags in the conversation that he'll have to mentally censor out. Flags exactly like "dinner with" and "Prom at" and "Kurt". So I don't have to do the thing that I've learned to do where I and make sure to not use any other flags for him to block out. Like "gay" or "boyfriend".
Mr. Hummel lets me go back upstairs and I relieve Finn. Kurt's just holding his head and groaning and when I sink back against the wall, he settles back against me.
"I'm really sorry," he says, sounding gruff and low and tired more than anything.
"For what?"
"Pretty much everything."
"You didn't do anything wrong."
"I was so stupid to think we could just go and I wanted you to have fun. I wanted a dance we could remember and be happy. And now here we are and everything's awful again and you have to take care of me."
"Okay," I bury my nose in his hair, which sort of smells like strawberries today. Kurt has like a thousand different tubes and bottles and jars of hair product and they all smell different, "One, you don't have to apologize for me taking care of you. I'm your boyfriend, you get to make me take care of you sometimes. You took care of me when I was drunk right?"
"No I was mad at you for kissing Rachel. You kicked me in your sleep and I kicked you back."
"Alright. Well. I probably deserved that," I tell him, though I'm not totally sure I did. "Two, I did have fun." Kurt snorts at me, "Okay… maybe it wasn't a consistent high of awesome over the course of the entire night, but there are some highlights. We got to do the awkward prom picture thing, dinner was great, and we danced. And I freaking killed that song." He snorts at me again, but it's a little less damning this time. "And you are not stupid. You are so brave. All of the time. You are brilliant and talented and incredible and everyone should know that. You were amazing, and I wish I was half as brave as you are."
"Walking onto that dance floor to save the school pariah was pretty brave," Kurt says.
The door slips open and an arm slides in, holding a bottle of aspirin and a glass of water.
"Make sure he takes a couple of these before he goes to sleep," Mr. Hummel tells us. I reach up awkwardly, trying to take hold of them without jostling Kurt too much.
"See what I mean?" I continue, after I hear Mr. Hummel walking back down the hallway "Pariah is like, SAT vocab. Not too shabby for someone who survived letting Puck make them drinks all night." I'm trying too hard to make it okay, but Kurt lets it slide, and he's gotten snarky again, even if it's self-deprecating. Maybe he's feeling a little better.
"You coming out to dance with me almost fixed it," he says quietly.
"Yeah?"
"Stay with me tonight," he says quietly.
"I'm supposed to be on the couch. I want your dad to like me."
"He likes you."
"I want to keep it that way."
"You're not the one who's drunk."
"I was last time."
"Please, Blaine."
"Okay."
He relaxes back against my chest a little more and I pour a couple aspirin into my palm and hand him the water. We sit in silence for a little bit, until Kurt starts working his way up to his feet.
"I'm gonna," he extends his index finger and waves it in front of his lips a couple times in a teeth brushing motion.
Kurt's clothes have been picked up and put on a hanger. They're hanging on his closet door, clearly having been made available for immediate entry into Kurt's closet's extremely intimidating categorization and filing system.
What do I normally do in Kurt's room when he leaves? Do I stand around awkwardly waiting for him to come back? Do I sit at his vanity? No, that's categorized as well.
This shouldn't be weird. Nothing's going to happen. He can brush his teeth all he wants, I still watched him throw up all night.
I sit on the edge of his bed, then realizing just how stupid I'm being, I climb fully clothed into Kurt's bed, leaving the lights on.
When he comes in he smiles at me and I smile back and he hits the light switch. I can hear him picking his way across the room and feel the bed sink as he climbs in with me, wrapping an arm around my chest and setting his head on my shoulder.
"This is going to sound stupid," he warns me.
"That's okay."
"I'm glad you came to Prom with me."
I'm not sure how to respond to that, but it doesn't matter, because when I finally open my mouth to just tell him the truth, I'm not sure what to say, he's already asleep.
Waking up to Mr. Hummel asking us about breakfast isn't quite as scary as I had imagined it would be last night. I must have been a little drunker than I thought, I'm certainly thirsty.
"Your dad found me in your bed again," I groan after he leaves.
"I can't believe me you saw me throw up," Kurt responds.
"If it helps it was mostly Finn with you while you threw up."
Kurt doesn't move from my chest.
"Are you sure you're okay for breakfast?" I ask him.
"Yeah. I'm fine. I just need to get dressed."
"For breakfast?"
"I just… I need to get dressed, Blaine. Okay?"
Right, I realize. Somewhere in Kurt's impeccably organized closet he must have the pieces to put together the perfect ensemble for confronting his family the day after a very public humiliation.
"Okay. Do you want me to help?"
"Do you own anything that's not a piped blazer or a cardigan?" Kurt asks, clearly shooting for biting and but falling short.
"T shirts? Jeans?"
"You cannot help me pick out an outfit, Blaine."
"I do own the last few years of vogue and a pretty solid stack of GQ," I wheedle.
"And I own football pads," he replies, finally pulling away from me, "Go ahead. I'll be down."
Kurt shines it on for breakfast and we all go with it. It slips a little when Carol walks into the kitchen in her bathrobe and grips his shoulders for a minute, but it doesn't fall.
I clean up after breakfast. It's weird to shower in Kurt's house. I never really did sleepovers. Even before I came out, people thought I was a little off somehow. I didn't have a lot of friends.
I had originally been planning to just head back to my house after breakfast. I've got a history essay that is basically haunting me, but when I get out of the shower my gel is mysteriously missing and Kurt is suspiciously innocent. Kurt's window is open and the slight breeze is bringing in the smell of flowering trees and the sound of Carol chatting with a neighbor. The drum of voices from ESPN is drifting mutedly up the stairs and Kurt forces me down into his vanity chair and starts rubbing something that looks like whip cream and smells like coconut into my hair.
And I just want to be here today.
"I would have thought that you of all people, Kurt Hummel, would appreciate my attempt at old Hollywood class."
"I do. But time marches on. Just try this," he says.
"Ugh. Only for you," I tell him, loving the way his cheeks go just a little pink. We're sort of side stepping toward the bed when the semi-shut door blows open and Finn half shouts "Door Open!" as he walks past.
"Oh good. I'm glad Finn's attempt to pretend that everything is normal is going to include being pissy about getting grounded for defending Rachel's honor when you got to sleep over."
His little admission that things aren't back to normal yet is the opening I wasn't sure I would take or not. But we've got the rest of the day, and this walled up Kurt worries me.
He lets me ask him about it. Prom. The merits and failings of redemption. I let him ask me about it, and we end up spending most of the afternoon lying on his bed, face to face with his fingers sliding in and out of the interestingly mobile hair on the back of my neck, catching up on the little things that we somehow didn't know about each other yet. He tells me that Puck and Finn used to throw him into dumpsters before they joined Glee, but he wonders sometimes if there was that much malice behind it because Puck tossed everyone in dumpsters and always tried to do it in the mornings rather than the afternoons, when the dumpsters were full of paper towels and empty Windex containers instead of sloppy Joe mix. How Finn would usually hold his coat or bag for him while he got tossed. He tells me about the time he tried to be Finn because he thought that's what his father wanted and how he even made out with Brittany.
I tell him the second half of the Sadie Hawkins story, and the unedited version of my great exodus to the tolerant arms of Dalton Academy. I tell him about Taylor and how I wonder if things would have been different if we had never been friends, because we only had this one thing in common. I tell him about the skinny student teacher in my art class that I'd had such a crush on I had nearly failed the class because I got too flustered to talk or hold pencils or in any way function when I was around him and how if Kurt's going to keep fiddling with my hair like this I might have to consider trying more of this thing he calls "mousse".
There's the sound of a throat being cleared and I pull back and lift my head up enough to see what is clearly Carol's hand sliding a plate of sandwiches into the room from one side of the door.
We get up and clear our throats and eat sandwiches and talk about lighter, pointless things. Top Model, why Katy Perry would ever have married Russell Brand. Kurt models a couple of his potential outfits for Monday for me and we have this very… quiet conversation where we're both allowed to admit that we know the clothes are armor and we get to pick apart the meanings of each of the three options, tossing the quiet blue button down with jeans (I don't want to stick out today) out right away. Then we toss out the hot pink sweater with the coordinating bowler hat that I can't even believe Kurt owns and the Burberry capris that would only work on Kurt (look at all the fucks I do not give). We finally settle on the lilac shirt, white cardigan, orange bowtie and jeans so tight I can't believe they actually fit (oh. I didn't even notice).
"See? I'm not so bad at this," I tell him with a grin, as he hangs the completed outfit up on the closet door.
"If I admit your competence in regard to cardigans do you promise not to hold it over me?" Kurt asks.
"No. Absolutely not. I'm going to periodically text you to remind you that you once told me I was competent in regard to cardigans."
Mr. Hummel yells up to ask if I'm staying for dinner, and as much as I want to I can practically hear the French Revolution hissing threats of academic failure in my ears. I tell Kurt that I have to go home, and thank Mr. Hummel and Carol for letting me stay over. Kurt kisses me goodbye at the door and I drive home.
It's a long enough drive to go back and forth about what I'm going to do when I sit down to dinner that night. To shift between being absolutely committed to just doing it and to dismissing the whole idea as hopeless.
When I get home dinner is just being set on the table. I drop into my seat and have finished filling my entire plate before my mother asks me: "So… how was your… night?"
And I tell them.
And I don't edit anymore than any other kid would. I don't mention that we were drinking or that I didn't sleep on the couch, but I tell them all about how Kurt made his Prom Kilt. How excited he was about the link to Alexander McQueen. I tell them about performing with Tina and Brittany and how different the New Directions are from the Warblers. I tell them what they did to Kurt and how he marched up there and what he said and how we danced. I grab our cheesy Prom picture out of my bag and show them with only slightly trembling hands.
And they listen. My dad is definitely doing the thing where he mentally edits what I'm saying. His eyes widen when he actually sees Kurt. He clears his throat a lot. My mom stares at her plate and pushes her peas back and forth until they're stone cold.
But they listen. They reply. They say things like "Oh that's terrible," and ask "What did he do?"
It's a lot of information to drop on them about a boy that I've only mentioned in passing. But… I feel like I can now. When my dad asks me, a lot like my mom had, "So… Kurt. Is he…"
I say "boyfriend" and I shrug and I help clear the table and my mom hugs me and my dad pats me on the shoulder and I go upstairs and put the picture of Kurt and I up on my desk.
I pull out my books out of my back pack open up to the chapter I'm writing about and then pull out my phone.
To Kurt:
Remember the time I was competent in regard to cardigans?
To Blaine:
Go be competent in regard to the French Revolution, Blaine
And it's a little like redemption.
