A/N: Thank you all so much for your reviews and follows and favorites! I'm really glad those of you are enjoying the story so far. This update was quicker than anticipated. Let me know what you think!

D/C: I don't own Kurt, Blaine, Mercedes, Rachel, or anyone/anything else you recognize from the show.

Kurt breathed a sigh of relief when the final bell finally rang for the day. All he had to do was make it from the classroom to his locker to his car and he'd be free for a whole two days. He quickly slammed his book closed, made a feeble attempt at stacking the notepapers on his desk, and shoved his materials into his messenger bag. He slung the bag over his shoulder as he stood and shot a smile at Mercedes beside him. (This was one of the few times that alphabetical seating worked to his advantage.) "Ready?" he asked her.

"You know it," the singer sighed heavily and followed him out. Kurt had a habit of blazing his own path through the hallways of McKinley when he was on a mission. It was generally best for those in his way to simply step out of it. Mercedes merely followed just behind him. It was Friday, and Kurt clearly had a mission to get the hell out of McKinley as quickly as possible.

"So are we still on for tonight?" Mercedes asked.

Kurt smiled over his shoulder at her and gave her a quick nod before turning his eyes forward again. "I am if you are."

Mercedes smiled fondly at him, but then she frowned lightly. "Still no word from Rachel?"

Kurt's brows knitted together and his mild smirk faded. He reached into the zipper pocket of his bag for his cell phone as the pair pulled up to his locker. With a finger swipe he unlocked it and shook his head. "No, nothing," he said, trying to school the concern in his voice, but not completely succeeding. He locked the phone with the press of a button and dropped it back in his bag, meanwhile reaching up with his right hand to open the combination lock. Mercedes leaned heavily against the lockers next to his, resting her head on the cool metal.

Kurt hadn't told her about his call with Rachel last night. Ever since his performance of "Le Hot Jazz" from Victor/Victoria, Rachel had managed to become somewhat of a close friend. A best friend, maybe. Perhaps not better than Mercedes, but still. He'd achieved a newfound tolerance for her because he'd seen a glimmer of selflessness that week, and even if they hadn't been the best of friends, Kurt knew how hard it was for Mercedes to keep a secret. He wouldn't betray Rachel's trust like that.

He dug through his bag, removing two books he didn't need and replacing them with one he did. Beside him, Mercedes continued the conversation, "Well, home-girl better get it together. She owes me a manicure."

Kurt smirked at that and let his locker door slam shut. He was so ready for the weekend, and even more ready for their monthly sleep-over. Behind him the hallways were thinning and he turned to walk Mercedes to her locker. He looked up away from her just as the girl pushed off from the lockers, and suddenly, he felt something hard and freezing slam him in the face. Cringing at the impact, Kurt stopped dead in his tracks and he stuttered back a step. He lifted his arms and tilted his head down, trying as he might to keep as much of the now dripping sludge from soaking all of his clothes.

Through the white noise buzzing loudly in his ears, he heard three sets of cruel laughter and Azimio's voice, "Have a nice weekend, Lady." Kurt clenched his teeth as he tried wiping the sticky mess from his eyes, only to feel a heavy hand shove into his shoulder and push him, stumbling, into what he assumed was Mercedes.

"Hey!" the girl shouted when her friend collided with her, as if only suddenly affronted.

Karofsky ignored her. "See you Monday, Faggot," he sneered, his voice much closer than Azimio's but still moving away. Kurt shivered and cringed. His eyes were starting to sting from a mixture of the irritating dye and his own welling tears. So close, he thought. He'd been so close to getting out of that school without taking a single slushie that day. He swallowed back the lump quickly forming in his throat, and took another swipe at his eyes with his fingers.

"Are you ok, Kurt?" he heard Mercedes ask gently as his bullies' laughter disappeared.

"Perfect," he replied bitterly. "Never better."

She clicked her tongue disapprovingly. "Come on, boo," she sighed, "let's get you cleaned up." Kurt didn't know what was worse about her tone, the pity or the resignation. As much as he hated pity, it hurt him that everyone seemed oblivious, or if not oblivious, indifferent – as if Kurt getting bullied and called a "lady" and a "faggot" was simply the way things were and had to be. Even his best friends didn't think he deserved better.

Kurt simply nodded his assent, not trusting himself to answer her, and let her lead him to the nearest bathroom. At least if his eyes were red and tearing, he wouldn't have to admit how much it hurt him every time this sort of thing happened. He could blame it on the red dye #7.

The drive from Columbus was filled with heavy silence. The day had been a long one – possibly the longest day the Berry men had ever experienced. It was almost 11:30 when the phone had rung, interrupting the conversation between Hiram, LeRoy, and Rachel. They had been getting somewhere, they'd thought, having all three moved to the couch. They took turns crying and Hiram and LeRoy took every opportunity to hug the daughter sitting between them on the couch and remind her how much they loved her and how that wouldn't change. They were a family. She was their family and they were hers, no matter what.

And then the phone had rung. The men had ignored it the first time, but then it had rung again, and realizing it may have been important, Hiram had promptly excused himself.

As well as Rachel had seemed to be taking the news that somewhere out there was a boy who was, for all intents and purposes, her brother, they still hadn't gotten around to explaining the circumstances that prompted the call from the social worker, or even suggesting the possibility that this boy who as of then had remained unnamed to Rachel, might one day in the future need to live with them. Perhaps they should have told her from the start instead of waiting, but neither Hiram nor LeRoy had predicted how quickly the call would come.

The social worker – Rosalie had been her name – had told them only the barest of details. She wasn't at liberty to discuss the mother's condition after all, only that there was a medical emergency that might necessitate placement. The call on Friday morning, less than 24 hours after they first learned of Blaine's existence, came far sooner than either man would have imagined.

The events of that morning played over and over in LeRoy's mind: the look on his husband's face when he had entered the living room, hand held over the receiver, calling as calmly as he could for LeRoy's assistance; the discomfort of having to tell the social worker that yes, they were partners and no, he wasn't a woman; the shock of finding out that Christy was dead; the initial resistance in his gut and the guilt that immediately followed when Rosalie started asking details for the purpose of their son's placement. Sure, ok, so they'd told her Thursday that yes, of course they'd care for their biological son if the need arose, but they hadn't known the need would arise so soon. And then there had been the confusion about the names….

"So which of you is Hiram?" Rosalie asked. She smiled at them, but LeRoy could tell that it was forced. His husband answered for them.

"I am. And this is my partner, LeRoy."

Rosalie's eyebrows jumped in surprise. "And I'm sorry, your middle name is…?"

LeRoy sighed at the memory, his eyes were focused on the darkened scenery as the shadowed outline of trees whizzed past them. In the backseat Blaine hadn't made a single sound. He'd answered most questions with a shrug, and some with a blank or pointed look, depending. LeRoy risked a glance back at the boy. Blaine was resting his curly mop against the headrest and his forehead against the window. The dull yellowed light of the streetlamps and the neon glow of the radio lit the boy's face. He had in a pair of earbuds and his eyes seemed trained on the lanes of oncoming traffic. LeRoy looked up again to see his husband cast a worried glance his way.

"You ok, baby?" Hiram asked gently, his eyes facing front again. LeRoy hated driving at night if he could avoid it, and the day had been a long one.

"Yeah," he replied, forcing a smile, though he probably shouldn't have bothered. Hiram always knew when he was lying, but luckily Hiram also knew when he didn't want to talk. Not now, the strain in his tone was saying. We'll talk about this at home.

Hiram merely nodded lightly. For his own part, Hiram was doing his best to avoid any heavy thinking. He focused on the drive, constructed a shopping list of all they would need in his head. Rachel was off at her sleep-over (thank God), so at least that would give them all a night to rest. Blaine had been through enough today, what with losing his mother and finding out about them. Hiram still didn't know how he felt about he and LeRoy being gay. Sure they were out and proud, but they weren't naïve.

Blaine had avoided making eye contact with either of them, and maybe he hadn't come out and expressed homophobic opinions but it wasn't as if the kid was given a choice. Hiram hoped to God this kid wasn't going to cause a problem because his biological father – whichever of the two men that happened to be – was gay. But honestly he'd forgotten that worry when Blaine had come out of Rosalie's office with all his belonging already in hand.

Like an idiot he'd offered to help by getting the rest of Blaine's things and the boy had given him an incredulous look that seemed layered with fear and resentment. Those were his things, the man had quickly realized. The boy's entire life had been stuffed in a duffel bag and an old tattered backpack held together in places with safety pins. First order of business, buy this kid – his kid – a backpack that isn't falling apart.

Blaine hadn't known what to expect of his new "parents". He didn't know how much the social worker – Rosalie was her name – had told them. No matter what, he'd known they would judge him. People always did. With them it actually came quicker than he'd expected. He saw the look of shock and embarrassment on Hiram's face when he tossed his duffel and backpack in the car and closed the trunk. He'd tried to suppress the angry flush of humiliation, knowing these people were already passing judgment, already thinking they knew about him, about his mother, and that they were better than her because his backpack was torn. Well maybe he liked his backpack. Maybe he didn't want a different backpack.

Blaine had refused to look at either man the entire drive to Lima. Instead he'd put in his earbuds and turned his old battered iPod to Young the Giant. He'd listened to their self-titled album on loop, sometimes stopping and repeating certain tracks that usually calmed him. He hadn't known what to expect when the Berrys walked through the door, introducing themselves as Hiram and LeRoy. For a minute, Blaine had been stunned, his heart skipping suddenly at the thought that these men might be partners, but he quickly shook that assumption away. He knew what happened when he assumed those sorts of things about people.

With his unfocused gaze pointed way from the men in the car, Blaine missed the knowing glances and the snippets of conversation. He let himself slip away into the lyrics of the songs. He didn't know he was dozing off until he was jolted awake by the smash of his forehead against the glass as the car pulled into the Berry's drive. His iPod was silent, the album having run all the way through to the end. Blaine squeezed his eyes shut and blinked. He brought a hand to his temple and just for good measure checked his palm for blood. No, of course there wasn't any. He hadn't hit the glass that hard. But ahead of him the teenager suddenly realized with a blush, LeRoy had thrown a look of concern his way.

The moment Blaine met his eyes, his own narrowed and he looked away, yanked his earbuds out of his ear and busied himself with undoing his seatbelt. He shoved his iPod and earbuds into the front pocket of his hoodie, then reached for the door handle. Blaine was in no rush to leave the car or enter the new house, though a quick glance around the large garage, which had room for two large cars and then some, caused Blaine's stomach to sink. They were definitely judging him, and Blaine's frown deepened. Again he fought off a flush as he reached for his things.

"I got it," Blaine snapped quickly at Hiram, who'd made a move to help. He gave the man a quick, warning look before yanking his bags from the trunk. It was instinct, and Hiram looked initially shocked, but then he smiled gently. Those were words, Hiram thought to himself. That's progress.