AN: Jesus, two months... I could offer excuses, but they'd be just that. Apologies to all still reading this, and hope y'all are still enjoying. Useful feedback either way is appreciated!
Speaking of feedback... I got this massive story written for the Kurtofsky Gift Exchange, and I could use a beta reader who's not participating in it as well, since it's being written specifically for another person and I really want it to be good. PM me before early June if willing and able.
Naturally, the results of the visit to Principal Figgins' office was about as preordained as anything earthly could get. Blaine knew that when he punched Hudson; hell, that was a big reason he did it in the first place.
Figgins gave Blaine a stern (for him) lecture about keeping one's temper and physical violence on school grounds, and sent him on his way. That was it. No punishment, not even a note in his permanent record. His parents weren't even informed. It was the only the second time that Blaine had used his pull with Figgins for anything worthwhile, and it felt... Well, it felt like making up for the past, at least to some extent.
But no. He was already in far too deep to make up for everything. Not even if he was stuck at McKinley for another fifty — hundred — years could he make up for everything now.
No, the actual surprise in the whole "disciplinary procedure" was that Hudson backed up every word Blaine said. It was just a "minor disagreement." It "didn't really hurt; he barely touched me." (Figgins, in a rare display of perspicacity, asked, "Then what about that rather large bruise on your chin?" Finn sputtered out something about running into a door. Blaine mentally groaned and thanked the Lord that Figgins had long since made up his mind.)
As soon as the door to Figgins' office shut behind them, Kurt and Dave appeared, practically out of nowhere. Each boy took a position on either side of Blaine and Finn, following them down the hall in a kind of twisted march. "What happened?!"
"Sheesh, Hummel, chill," Blaine snorted. "Hudson's okay."
"I know he's okay!" Kurt snapped. "What about you?"
Blaine stumbled on his own feet a little, his shoes squeaking an echo across the empty hallway. He smoothly regained his balance (thank you, hours upon hours of football practice) quickly enough that no one noticed — he hoped. "I'm fine, of course. Why wouldn't I be? You of all people should know I've got Figgins practically in my pocket..." The impact of his own words nearly knocked him off his feet again. He could almost feel Hudson's and Karofsky's glares on the back of his head. "Shit, I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
"I know you didn't," Kurt said, flashing his own little glares at the others. The feeling of daggers on him immediately ceased. "But what were you thinking? You'd been doing so well... I thought... I just thought you were..." Kurt shook his head, the words crashing against each other. Blaine blinked; he never thought he'd ever see the sharp-tongued Kurt Hummel at a loss for words, certainly not over him. "I just... I just hope you're not backsliding..."
Oh, God, the disappointment. Blaine thought he'd already ripped his own heart out seeing the expressions he himself put on Kurt Hummel's face. He thought the pain and the terror were the worst. He was wrong. Lord, was he wrong.
"He's not." Both turned in surprise to Finn, who was rubbing the back of his head. "I... I think I might've done something stupid." Such was the seriousness of his tone that none of the three present even thought of making the obvious snide remark. "I... I should talk to her. I..."
Kurt rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I think you've done enough for one day."
"But I didn't mean...!"
"I know you didn't, but the fact remains that it happened."
"I was just frustrated! I wasn't thinking!"
"Obviously," Blaine said sourly. He couldn't let a slow pitch like that go by. Besides, he still felt like punching Hudson again; Santana would've wanted him to.
"Dude, we know you're sorry," Dave said, "but you think she wants to listen to you right now?" Finn looked stricken, almost enough for Blaine to start to (oh God) feel a little sorry for the bastard. "Hell, she'd probably throw stuff at most of us before we even got a chance to say word one to her."
Kurt nodded. "Santana is... standoffish when she's upset. You should know that by now." Finn nodded reluctantly. "We need to give her time. Most of us, at any rate." He raised an eyebrow, taking a significant glance at Blaine. Blaine nodded without a second of hesitation.
"I'm there for her." It was funny; a year ago, she (hell, any girl) was just a piece of ass to him, to be used and discarded at his whim when they ceased to be useful. He'd even gotten most of them to think that his manipulation of them was a favor to them. It was more than just a desperate attempt at a coverup; he'd actually found it kind of... fun.
A wave of nauseating shame ripped through him; Blaine had to take a deep breath to keep from throwing up. Then he watched Kurt and Dave talking to Hudson, and the nausea returned. It was just a matter of time now; he couldn't keep a lid on things forever. His fucking feelings wouldn't let him.
And then what?
Dave felt like throwing the remote at the TV. Only the mental picture of an enraged Burt Hummel staring at his smashed flatscreen stopped him. "That son of a bitch..." he managed to rasp through grinding teeth.
"I hope my father eviscerates him," Kurt said in a low voice that Dave knew by now was his most dangerous.
"At the polls?"
"No, I mean literally eviscerates him. Though the way I hear it, Coach Sylvester is already halfway there." He shook his head; his grip on Dave's arm started to actually hurt. "How dare he. How fucking dare he. Using someone's sexuality as a weapon... and against someone else! He took something that's supposed to be... personal and... He didn't even think about...! He...!"
Now Kurt was sputtering, so far from the usually smooth and articulate Kurt Hummel that Dave knew it for the sign of emotional turmoil that it was. For the hundredth time, he thanked God he wasn't stupid enough to even think about actually outing Blaine Anderson... Not after that initial reaction, anyway. He reached over Kurt's shoulder and hugged him into his side tightly. Dave could feel Kurt relax, just a little.
"Well, we'll be there for her. Help her accept herself, just like you have with Blaine."
"But that's not enough." Kurt sighed, leaning his head against Dave's shoulder. "Coming out isn't the end. You know that. We can't just celebrate her newfound honesty — which was forced on her, remember — and assume everything's going to be okay. She's going to need more. She deserves more."
"Yeah, I can see that." A moment of silence passed; they watched TV, but neither really absorbed what they were seeing on screen. "Do you think...?"
"Hm?"
"Nothing."
"No, what?"
"I just... I just wonder how I would've handled it if I were her. If I'd been in the closet, and someone else dragged me out before I was ready."
Kurt was quiet for a long moment. Dave wanted to look over at him, but couldn't quite figure out how to adjust his body to do that without disturbing his boyfriend's head on his shoulder. "I think..." he began quietly, "I think I would've been okay. Personally. I know I would've had my dad's support. Wish I'd have known that when I was first figuring things out. But... it would've been rough, at least at first. Hell, maybe after that too."
"Yeah. Sounds the same for me. I know my family loves me and all, but there's always that little doubt..."
"Which just emphasizes my point. We have the support systems, but we have no idea what Santana has. Even if she does have it... Everything's changed for her now. We can't just expect her to settle into her new world immediately."
"Yeah. But at least she has the Troubletones. And—" A trill came from Dave's pocket. "Whoop, hold on a sec." He pulled out his cell phone, tapped on the screen, and read. He chuckled, and his thumbs flew across the screen with a wry grin. "Sorry 'bout that," he said as he slipped the phone back into his pocket. "Sebastian."
"Oh." That leaden feeling came back into Kurt's stomach. "What did he want?"
"Nothing. Just shooting the shit."
"Ah." Kurt had almost forgotten about Sebastian Smythe, what with the run at the presidency and the other little dramas that seemed to pop up weekly at McKinley, but this brought everything back at a full, sickening rush.
The worst part was trying to figure out his options. What could he possibly do? He was certain of Sebastian's intentions, but how could he stop them? He could confront Sebastian, but Kurt had little doubt that he'd would deny everything (or, if they were in private, admit everything, and dare Kurt to stop him). He could tell Dave, but would he believe him, when all of Sebastian's interactions with him had been so innocent? And if he didn't believe Kurt, what else could he do? Demand he stop seeing Sebastian? Make him choose between them? That would look controlling (and Kurt wasn't sure it wouldn't be), and drive a wedge between them faster than Sebastian ever could.
Kurt suspected Sebastian was counting on that, the bastard.
Yet how long could he keep silent, and watch Sebastian try to worm his way into Dave's heart, even if Dave never took the bait? They'd promised that they'd be honest with each other. Besides, Kurt knew his irritation would show through eventually, and if it simmered long enough, it'd probably come out in some kind of messy explosion that would just make things a thousand times worse.
Kurt suspected Sebastian was counting on that too.
He had to admire, just a little, the neat little corner Sebastian had painted him into. It was clever in a twisted sort of way, especially since it'd taken a random brainwave to even see what he was doing to begin with. God damn him...
"Kurt?"
Kurt started. "Hm?"
"I asked you what you wanted to watch. Three times."
"Oh... I'm sorry. I was a little distracted."
"Obviously," Dave snickered. His face relaxed into concern. "You feel like talking about whatever it is?"
Kurt shook his head. "Not right now. Soon, though, I promise."
Dave merely nodded. "Okay." He turned back to the TV. "So I thought we'd check out that new Hong Kong action flick Sam told me about..."
And that was it. No more questioning, no more probing. Most of his friends would've blundered on like a rhino in heat. Just one more reminder of why he gave Dave a chance.
On the other hand, maybe it would've been better to bring it up now, even if he had no idea what he wanted to do. It just gave him more time to stew and worry. God, if Smythe knew, he'd laugh and laugh... But the simple truth was, he'd have to tell Dave about Sebastian's scheming ways eventually.
He just hoped that his relationship, his friendship, would survive.
Blaine held his breath as he approached the front door. If Santana wasn't here, this was going to get difficult.
He'd gotten a strange, sympathetic reception at her house from her grandmother, who merely said that her granddaughter "has brought embarrassment to this family and is no longer welcome here." He'd resisted the urge to bring even more embarrassment to this woman personally and stormed off before he said something he'd regret — or end up in front of a juvenile court judge for. Second choice? Obvious. Santana may not have liked the idea of showing her pain in this particular house, but she was emotionally vulnerable and had few options, so she'd likely take this way out.
Blaine wanted to think that he would've been next on the list.
He stepped up onto the porch. He raised his clenched fist to knock... and the door swung open.
Brittany stood on the other side, completely unsurprised at his presence. Blaine blinked; he hadn't noticed anyone peeking out of the windows, but she had to have been to have known he was coming... right?
"She's upstairs," Brittany said without preamble, stepping aside to let him in. "She won't talk to anyone."
"Even you?"
Brittany paused for a moment, an unreadable expression on her face, before shaking her head. "We're... too close. She doesn't need her girlfriend right now. She needs just a friend."
Well. That certainly tossed another ingredient into the confused stew pot that was his opinion on Brittany. She always knew how to get and get to people — hell, the very fact that she was one of the top dogs at school despite her being "easy" told volumes about her knack at understanding others. But Blaine had never thought her capable of being this... focused? Direct? But then, she had something, someone, to focus on...
Fuck, they really are in love.
"She's in the guest bedroom," Brittany said, interrupting his thoughts. "Upstairs, second door on the right."
Blaine nodded. "Thanks."
She nodded in return. "She wasn't sure you'd come. But I knew." She cocked her head, as if analyzing him just by look; he suppressed a shiver. "You love her too."
He nodded again; what else could he do? "Yeah," he said through parched throat. Then he went upstairs.
Once there, he paused in front of the indicated door, listening. He didn't hear anything on the other side, but then, he had no idea how thick the doors were in this place. He heard one of the other doors in the hall creak open; he caught a glimpse of Rory Flanagan's face peeking out in curiosity. The two met eyes for a moment, and the door slammed shut again. Steeling himself, he knocked on her door.
"If that's Lucky the Leprechaun again," a voice rheumy with snot snarled from the other side, "you'll be coughing up your Lucky Charms by the time I'm through with you!"
"It's me."
The door opened almost instantaneously. Santana's eyes were red, her hair undone and tangled over her shoulders. "Took you long enough," she growled, practically yanking him into the room and slamming the door behind him. She whirled on him, arms crossed. "Well? What's first? The stupid questions, like 'how are you doing'? Oh, maybe you're gonna tell me that it's all gonna be okay, or that you understand. Come on, spit it out. What fucking idiotic platitudes are you going to lead off with, Anderson?"
Blaine stared at her in silence for a moment. Then he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her. She stiffened, started to push back... Then dissolved into sobs, her own arms flinging themselves around his torso. He felt her tears soak the shoulder of his shirt as he gently led her to the bed; they sat down on the edge. He rubbed her back as it heaved with her weeping. He wasn't sure how long they stayed like that; it couldn't have been less than ten minutes, though. Eventually, the crying ceased, but she still didn't move or even slacken her grip on him. Though his arms were starting to get a little tired, he let her sit there like that until she finally let go and pushed herself away from him. Only then did he break the embrace.
Santana sniffled, snatching up a tissue from a nearby box and wiping her moisture streaked face. "You saw it?"
Blaine shook his head. "No. But I found it on Salazar's website." What he didn't mention was asking one of his dad's aides to do a little investigating on the guy. The smallest skeleton in the closet, the least little secret, and Blaine was determined to blow it up on every gossip news magazine show and scandal rag he could think of. The only thought that had brought a smile to his face in two days was the thought of seeing Reggie Salazar's broken visage slumping through a flash-filled media scrum screaming at him.
"She was supposed to be the good abuela," she muttered. Blaine nodded; he'd heard her stories about her mother's mother, a hard and borderline abusive woman with whom the family had lived when they were poor and Santana's father was struggling to pay for medical school. Alma Lopez was supposed to be different... better. Blaine had a feeling that's what was particularly crushing her right now — the bitter disappointment. "She said she loved me. She was supposed to love me."
He knew that she wasn't expecting him to say anything, which was fortunate, because Blaine had no idea how to answer her. Grandparents... parents... They were human too, after all. Not all of them were fit or particularly worthy of their roles. Sometimes they could surprise you... for both good and for ill.
Blaine's mind flashed to Roger and Elaine Anderson, and pushed back the question that was nibbling at the back of his brain.
"Two weeks. Two fucking weeks. My entire life's changed, and that's all the time it took. It... it wasn't supposed to happen this way. It was supposed to be—"
"Your choice," Blaine said quietly.
She nodded. "I wasn't supposed to be alone..."
Blaine glared. "What the fuck do you mean 'alone'? Who am I, chopped liver? What about Brittany and the rest of your glee club group? You know they'll be there for you, even if you are with the enemy now."
Santana rolled her eyes. "My 'glee club group' will gather around me with hugs and sing happy kumbyahs with me, then wander off with their own little dramas and just assume that because I'm out and feeling a little better that all my problems are solved."
"Are you going to give them any reason to assume otherwise?" Blaine asked quietly. Santana stiffened, but he would've known even without that little physical sign that he'd hit a mark. "If you're just going to pretend you're fine so no one goes poking around where you're hurting, no one's gonna know that you need anything."
"I don't," she sniffed.
"Uh huh, right. You cried on my shoulder for half an hour because everything's just peachy. You forget, San, I'm a hardened veteran of lesbian crying jags."
"Fuck you."
"That's Brittany's job." He sighed and put an arm around her shoulder. "So fine, just being out doesn't mean your problems are all solved. But you and I both know that as lame as that glee club is, they're gonna stick by you — even if you don't want them to. So you might as well do what you always do and take advantage of them. And there's the GSA, too — you know they're gonna fall all over themselves to make sure you're okay..."
"Fine, fine, I get the picture — McKinley's all going to be one big happy family..."
"Except for the homophobes, and the gossip mongers, and the guys who think they just need to get into your pants to 'convert' you... Except you've probably already done them all anyway, so that doesn't even make sense..." She turned a full on Santana Lopez glare on him, which was ridiculously relieving. This was normal. This was easier to handle than despair, for both of them. "My point is..." he hurried on — he may have been relieved to see the glare, but that didn't mean he was stupid enough to wait for the action that inevitably followed, "... that unlike your singing and dancing friends, I've got my eyes wide open here. I know that the world isn't perfect. I know you've still got a lot of shit to face. I'm just saying that you assuming that everyone's going to just forget about you isn't doing you any good. Fine, most of your friends are self-absorbed and narcissistic — hell, I'm one of them, I'll admit that — but you've built up a lot of goodwill over the past year. The Bully Whips, the GSA... You've shown them that you're actually human under all the bitch. And I think people will remember that."
There was a long silence, interrupted only by the occasional sniffle. Finally: "You know that whole speech sounds exactly like something Schuester or Pillsbury would barf out."
Blaine shrugged. "I don't hear 'I deny anything you said is true, Blaine, you gorgeous hunk'."
Santana laughed, a sound that sent the tension fleeing from Blaine's shoulders. "Oh, god, you're deluded..."
"But right."
The laughter stopped, replaced by thoughtfulness. "I suppose." With Santana, that would have to be enough.
"Well, I'm definitely stuck with you. Abandoning my ex in her time of need would really hurt my rep. So I'm going to make sure you get the help you deserve, whether you want to or not."
"Better wear a cup, then, because I'll be real tempted."
"Already wearing it."
Santana snorted. "You really are learning." She sighed. "Fine. I'll let you make me your charity case. But if you ever tell anyone that I was crying like a little bitch, I'll wear that shredded wheat brick you call a scalp as a hat."
He hugged her. "So noted."
"Hi! You're a senior, right? Don't forget to vote today! Here, take a button! Hey, dude, good game last night! Don't forget to vote for Kurt Hummel, okay?" Dave sighed, looking down at his still half-full box of buttons. The one positive was that Brittany's and Nelson's representatives seemed to be having the same problem. There were only so many voters to go around, and all the polls (which was pretty much Jacob ben Israel's and one being taken by Sue Sylvester, whose numbers were still under wraps) said the race was close. Still, it felt like a vindication of Kurt's political touch and his own managing that the race was that close, running against a popular cheerleader and a jock. But it would certainly be quite the gem on Kurt's resume if he were to actually win...
Someone was approaching from behind, and Dave's mind immediately went into campaign mode. "Hey, are you—? Oh, hi, Rory."
"Ah, hello, David."
Dave was suddenly conscious of how much he towered over the Irishman, especially the way Rory appeared to shrink into himself in that moment — sticking his hands in his pockets and crowding his arms close to his body. "Is... something the matter? Is Santana calling you 'Darby O'Gill' again?"
"It's... not me I'm concerned about."
Dave tried to wrench his mind off of how cute (not cute as in sexy — cute as in cute) Rory was with his slight stature and lilting accent. "Then who...?" He blinked. "Me?"
"I tried to mind my own business," Rory burst out, his accent sharpening in his agitation. "Ye have to understand — in my neighborhood, mindin' yer own business is usually what keeps yer head on yer shoulders. But these past few weeks... I really like ye, David. Ye and Kurt... Yer not at all like what my church an' my family raised me to think guys like ye are like, and I can't keep my mouth shut anymore..."
"Whoa, whoa, slow down... What are you talking about?"
"It's yer hockey teammates. I think they're out to hurt ye."
"Uh, no offense, Rory, but I can handle myself. Besides, guys get hurt all the time in hockey..."
"Ye don't understand!" Rory burst out. "When I said hurt ye, I meant hurt ye. As in, deliberately!"
Dave froze. "How would you know?"
"I saw the way they looked at ye at yer tryout. I... didn't like it. I really didn't like it."
Dave raised a skeptical eyebrow. "You think my teammates are out to hurt me... because they looked at me funny?"
"Not just funny! The way someone looks at someone when they really hate 'em, and wants to hurt 'em bad!" Rory's face turned pinched and desperate. "I looked 'em up in a yearbook! Their names are Scott Cooper, Nate Parkman, and Jason Campbell! They're the ones! Please, David, ye need to be careful around 'em! I don't trust 'em, and I'm..." He sighed. "I'm afraid for ye."
Dave remembered that Cooper and Parkman were part of that brief confrontation at the McKinley junior prom. Campbell was a friend of theirs. Yes, the three were kind of assholes, but so were a lot of people. And yes, they seemed to have a problem with him being gay, but again, so did a lot of people. And yes, they were more aggressive than the rest of the team... but that just made them good hockey players. And yes, they'd been on the other end of most of the accidental hits he'd gotten in practices and games, but...
But...
Dave frowned, trying to complete that sentence.
"I'll go to the principal if ye want," Rory continued. "I know I'm not exactly the best witness, but if it'll get them to stop..."
"No." Dave shook his head. "It won't do any good."
"But we have to do something..."
"I told you, I can take care of myself. I'll watch out, I promise."
"You're sure?" Rory's face was half hopeful, half suspicious.
"Promise. But thanks for warning me, seriously."
Rory nodded. "Like I said, ye and Kurt... You're good people, no matter what the Church says. Brittany too. Santana..." He grimaced. "Maybe not her, but she's still human."
Dave laughed. "That she is."
"Remember, ye promised. Watch out for yourself."
"I will."
Rory gave him one last nervous nod and scampered off. Dave stood there in the hallway, lost in thought — lost for so long, that it was a good ten minutes after he was supposed to be in English Lit that he regained awareness.
"No one's going to touch me," Santana said flatly.
"I know," Blaine replied as he kept pace beside her.
"So don't some of our other clients need protecting from real threats?"
"Did you ever beat anyone up?"
"No. So what?"
"So, you were still one of the most feared bitches in this school." He smiled fondly at the smug smirk that came over her face at that. "Bullying isn't just a physical thing, and we're not the Bully Whips But Only For the Guys Who Punch People either."
"I still don't need you escorting me," she muttered. "I can take care of myself."
"Sure you can. But you shouldn't have to." Blaine paused to raise his sunglasses, shooting a nasty glare at an approaching rugby player who set off a few mental alarm bells. The guy's eyes widened, and he quickly backed off. Smart man. "Besides, Brittany would cut me if I didn't do this."
Santana smiled, soft and sad, for a moment before putting her mask back on. "God, me being escorted. This makes me feel like a fucking—"
Blaine maneuvered in front of her; she stopped short. That sort of surprised him; he halfway expected her to just plow on over him. "Not in front of the clients, dear," he said with a condescending grin. He hurried on in a low voice before she could think about slapping him too. "Look, I don't care about your fucking wounded pride or your boo-hooing. I care about making sure this school doesn't start kicking you while you're down. You know they want to, and you may be able to handle that, but like I said, you have enough to worry about without having to deal with a bunch of jealous assholes. So shut up and take the escort before I tell Brittany." He waited, arms folded, for a response.
He didn't get any; Santana was staring at him, slack-jawed. It was an amusing look, especially since it seemed so foreign on her. "I..." she finally sputtered. "When the fuck did you grow balls, Anderson?"
"Come on. You're gonna be late for Modern History." She shut up for the rest of the escort; that in of itself, Blaine knew, was a minor miracle.
The top headlines from Jacob ben Israel's blog for that week were as follows:
"PRESIDENTIAL SCANDAL! Glee Club Star Caught Stuffing Ballot Box!"
(Kurt approached her not long afterward. "Why?"
She was close to telling him: about Santana's offer, about her realization, her guilt... But she couldn't. She couldn't lay herself bare like that, not now... not yet. So she simply said, "You deserved it.")
"PIERCE WINS! — Cheerio Squeaks Out Narrow Electoral Victory"
("Congratulations," Santana said softly, stroking Brittany's cheek. "At least something good happened during this whole sucky week."
"I'll make things better for you, San," Brittany said with a serious look. "I promise."
"I know. I know you will.")
"Football Coach Breaks Up With OSU Recruiter — Spurned Man Seen Dating Coach Sylvester"
("Never settle," Beiste muttered as she passed by Artie. He looked up, startled, but her back was already to him as she marched down the hall. Artie nodded to himself.)
There was nothing about Santana. An official warning from the Bully Whips (and Santana's hand on Jacob's crotch in a way that did not fit into any of his masturbatory fantasies about her) made sure of that.
"Tell me again why I needed to be here?" Dave asked as he parked his car in the hospital visitor's lot. Puck had already jumped out the second they'd screeched to a halt, so Dave had to hurry just to keep up.
"Moral support, dude," came the panted reply as Puck increased the gap between them.
"Come on, from what you told me, she's probably fine. Kids go through worse all the time. Hell, my mom always tells this story about how I fell off a balcony at our old house when I was two..." Dave stopped short; was he imagining things, or...? "Hey, you go on ahead without me; I—" He turned to face... an empty space, the sliding doors to the ER gently closing. "Okay... Yeah. I'll... be out here."
Dave carefully circled around a traffic island, keeping himself out of sight. He felt both rather badass and rather foolish, but he had a feeling that caution was warranted in this case. Partially crouching behind a bush, his fleeting first impression was rather grimly confirmed.
Yes, that was indeed Quinn's car; he'd practically memorized the license plate number during his previous... damage control sessions. He squinted, but his eyes couldn't quite penetrate the darkness that shrouded the driver's seat. He had a feeling, though, that she was there.
Technically, there wasn't anything too bothersome here; she gave birth to Beth, and of course she'd be concerned. She was probably the first person Ms. Corcoran called, now that the two were working together in the Troubletones. But she was just sitting there, not even going inside. Why? What was she thinking? What was she waiting for...?
Suddenly, he heard the voice in his head, as clear as though Quinn were right there speaking directly to him. This is her fault. I wouldn't have let Beth fall like that. She's not a good mother. I would be a good mother, if only I had my daughter back...
It was a little scary, being able to get into her head like that, but the inarguable logic of it made the words fit together in his head like jigsaw pieces. So did this thought, sliding into his head in his own voice — a voice firm with certainty.
She's gonna snap. She's gonna do something stupid.
Dave shuddered and crept away, hoping Quinn hadn't seen him. He straightened as the light from the emergency room doors fell on him, his mind churning.
Maybe, he thought, it was because he knew what it was like to be jealous and desperate, to feel like you were trapped in a life of despair, with only one option available, the possibility of hope so bright and shining that it would've been stupid not to reach out and grab it. Only... he knew what lay down that road. He knew what it would lead to, how much it would hurt everyone Quinn cared about, including (especially?) herself. Worse yet, he knew that if she were caught (and she almost certainly would), the consequences wouldn't stop at her loved one hating her.
Okay, then. They'd have to talk. That much was clear. He had to at least try to warn her off this path.
He only hoped that she'd listen to what he had to say.
There it was: his future resting inside a 9.5 inch by 12 inch envelope, address and postage checked and triple checked. There were barely ten sheets of paper inside, but it was still heavy, weighed down by expectation, hope, and yes, fear.
Kurt Hummel's application to the New York Academy of Dramatic Arts. He'd already sent off his applications to Tisch and other schools (albeit reluctantly, and only at some small prodding by his father), but this... This was the one he sweated over, the one he read and reread and reread for typos and errant ink marks, the only one he was planning to buy delivery confirmation for.
He'd thought of asking Dave to be here for this moment, but he couldn't wait. Besides, this was the kind of moment that one really had to experience alone. So, sucking in a deep breath (and getting dizzy oh God he had to let it out...), he approached the smiling postal clerk (what the hell was she smiling for? Didn't she realize she was about take responsibility for the rest of his life? Couldn't she feel the weight of it?!).
Kurt gulped, trying to will some calm into him. He had this. He had this. He had... Oh, God, he didn't have this something was going to go wrong and he... Okay, good thoughts, good thoughts... Dad is the newest Representative from Ohio. Dave is waiting for you at home, with that new bottle of... Oh, God, not that kind of good thought... He hoped his blush wasn't showing as he nodded at the clerk and extended the envelope towards her. She took it (he almost didn't let go for a moment) and his neatly filled out forms and processed them. Kurt paid cash (no sense taking the miniscule risk of something going wrong with a credit or debit card payment, as paranoid as the thought was). The clerk stamped the envelope and attached the proper stickers. "Will that be everything?"
"What? Oh... Yes."
"Here's your receipt. Have a nice day!" The clerk turned around, so she didn't see Kurt stand there, watching as the envelope disappeared from view. He barely resisted the urge to jump the counter just to make sure.
So there it was. It was done. The next step would be up to them. He was "supposed" to feel relieved, but the tension in his chest, his gut, just deepened.
Ah, well, at least he wouldn't have to think about it for another couple of months.
Then again, it meant that all he really had left to think about was Sebastian.
Replacing nerves with nausea. Wonderful.
The puck slammed against Dave's helmet, staggering him. His ears rang, and he felt his back slam against the cool plexiglass. It had been a glancing blow, all things considered, and hell, that's what the helmets were for, but it still felt like his brain was vibrating in his skull.
"My bad!" Jason Campbell yelled as he skated past. Dave didn't see his face as it flashed by — he was skating too quickly. But then, he hadn't even paused to see if he was actually all right, either. Dave ripped off his helmet, trying to knead out ache.
"You okay, man?"
"What? Yeah, Stan, I'm fine."
Stan Paxton, Titans left wing and one of the cooler guys on the team in Dave's opinion, shook his head. "Fucking Campbell. He keeps goofing off like that, he's gonna hurt someone bad one of these days." His voice rose. "Pay attention to where you're fucking shooting!"
"Hey!" Coach Williamson's voice cut in. "Quick slacking and get back to practice!"
Stan snorted. "Of course Coach wasn't paying attention. Assholes like Campbell think they can get away with anything." He slapped Dave's shoulder. "Watch out for him, dude."
Dave nodded as he skated away. Every time something like this happened, he remembered more and more little things he'd dismissed before: trips, accidental hits, body slams, careless shots like that last one. Cooper, Parkman, Campbell... Parkman, Campbell, Cooper... Campbell, Cooper, Parkman...
Kurt was concerned. He saw the way his boyfriend looked at him every time he winced or sucked in a breath through his teeth or rubbed a new bruise. And with Rory's warning... Could it really be...?
Dave took a glance at Coach Williamson. He certainly didn't seem to notice anything amiss going on, and he was a hardened veteran of the sport. Maybe it was just Rory's imagination. After all, it wasn't like anyone was snarling at him in the locker room or harassing him. And hockey was a violent sport, unpredictable — a hundred little things could go wrong, even with the best intentions.
And he loved hockey. God, he loved hockey. If he made waves unnecessarily, he could lose it... Like he lost Dalton, like he lost the Warblers and all his friends...
He couldn't lose this too. He just couldn't.
Besides, they had an important match tomorrow, and he had to get his head in the game. No sense worrying about mere possibility when there was the certainty of the Roth High Cougars in less than 24 hours.
Putting on his game face, Dave returned to the ice, where his teammates were waiting.
I hope this wasn't too disappointing. Like I said before, I was rather... startled at how little agency Blaine had in canon, and for so long. I'm trying to rectify a lot of stuff, so I can only hope I'm successful! (Especially since, obviously, even more stuff will be happening — a lot from canon, but a lot... not...)
Now to get to the next chapter of "Lethe"...