AN: I fear for when everything I've written about Blaine's parents and home life gets Jossed. I know it's an AU, but I did want to stick close to "reality." Names especially; I had to give them names for obvious reasons, but I know that'll be the first thing Jossed, and it annoys me. Ah, well, that's how far back the divergence goes; Dad got a different name, so that ended up affecting his wealth and who he married! :)

Oh, and confession time: the angst meme prompt I'm answering? I wrote it. I didn't think I could do it myself, but I just kept thinking of scenes and twists and character moments and the next thing I knew… this. I have no idea what I'm going to do to follow this up, but tackling some of my other prompts might be the next step…

Ever since he was a kid, Blaine had known he was different. No, not in that way; he wasn't gay. But he knew that his parents' wealth and privilege put him on a different plane than that of his peers, no matter who he was or what he did. Maybe if they weren't so rich or active in their own lives, things might've been different. But that was just the way life worked.

After all, being a "have" gave one certain... responsibilities, not to mention an image to uphold. It was a lesson he saw in action every day with his parents; he couldn't believe sometimes that the people he interacted with at home were the same ones who had their photos taken for the society pages and made their speeches at those $5000 plate fundraisers.

There were times he tried to remember the kind of conversations he had with them, especially his dad. But they all seemed to fall into particular themes. Like his choice of college...

"Other schools? I wouldn't bother, son; you're going to be a Yalie, like your old man. After all, my pull with the alumni association and administration will make it far easier on you than any other choice. Why waste that kind of opportunity? Plus, it's kind of a family tradition, as you know..."

...Or his major...

"I've already talked to an old friend who's in charge of the pre-law program. He thinks you're a shoe-in. I think you'd be doing yourself a huge disservice not to take advantage of this, Blaine. I've always known you had the right aptitude for the profession..."

...Or even his extracurricular activities...

"Oh, all that arts stuff is fine, but don't you want to get into sports? One of my big regrets from when I was your age was not trying out for them. Why not football? You like watching it on TV, don't you? And you know how that'll look on your resume. I would've been pretty good myself, let me tell you..."

Looking back on it, his attending McKinley at all, instead of Dalton or some other fancy-schmancy prep school, was nothing short of a miracle. Blaine often wondered what his mother said (and why she even bothered) that managed to convince his father to change his mind. He could use ammunition like that.

Blaine was shut up in his room, glued to his laptop. He'd recorded himself singing, and was playing it back; it seemed... well, it seemed okay, but for all of his arrogance, he wouldn't, couldn't, pretend that he knew what a good voice sounded like. Come to think of it, did Schuester really know what a good voice sounded like either? He let Hudson in, after all. (Then again, what did Blaine know about Hudson's voice? He never really paid much attention to those tedious Glee Club performances.)

He closed his eyes, imagining himself on that field, the voice emanating from his laptop instead blazing across the field. As the clip finished, Blaine opened his eyes again, his heart pounding.

That evening, at supper, the conversation went on much as it usually did. "Could you pass the pepper, Mom?"

"Of course, sweetie." She handed over the shaker with a graceful motion.

"School going all right?" his father asked.

"Just fine, sir. No problems."

The elder Anderson nodded. "Good to hear."

A brief pause, only filled by the clinking of silverware against china. "Uh, I suppose you two still aren't going to make it to my game?"

Elaine Anderson sighed. "Oh, Blaine, you know how much your father and I want to go. But this fundraiser is extremely important to the charity, and the date's been set for almost four months. It's just bad luck, that's all."

His father nodded agreement. "Damn shame, not being able to see you win that championship ring. Quite a piece of jewelry to show off to your future employers." He took a sip of his soup. "But Sunday night, you, your mother, and I are all going out to eat to celebrate the victory. Then you can tell us all about it. Don't leave a single detail out, you hear?"

"Yes, sir," Blaine lied, sighing in relief. In that moment, he knew that his decision was clear.

"Anderson?" Finn asked quietly in disbelief. Artie nodded, paying little heed to the stream of students that occasionally bumped into his wheelchair as they passed in the packed hall.

"Yeah. Mr. Schue said that he agreed to split the 'Thriller' parts with me."

The quarterback shook his head. "Anderson... Can he even sing?"

"Dunno. Mr. Schue seemed to think so. He must, or he wouldn't have let him in the first place."

"Geez, should we let him? I mean, he's the reason Kurt left McKinley."

"I don't think we have much of a choice," Artie replied. "The whole point of this thing is to get us to work together. Even if we don't want him to, Mr. Schue and Coach Beiste will make us."

"Hey, Hudson!"

"Speak of the devil..." Artie muttered under his breath. Blaine jogged up to the pair.

"What is it, Anderson?"

"Did you hear the good news? The halftime show just got 90% less lame."

"Yeah, I did. Think you can keep up with Artie?"

"I don't think I'll have much trouble," Blaine grinned. "Hey..." Here his voice lowered a few notches. "I was thinking... The halftime show's pretty important, and all our reps are on the line. Maybe we should do some kind of warm-up number. Just to make sure we're all on the same page. I'm not going to go out there just to be humiliated because we weren't a team."

Artie and Finn exchanged a startled glance. "Uh..." the latter said eloquently. "Sure... I guess. What kind of warm-up number?"

"Well... I was looking up classic rock... Research, y'know... And I found this song I figured might be appropriate..."

Santana was, of course, a full fifteen minutes late when she finally entered The Lima Bean. She'd already texted him with her coffee order (to be paid for by Blaine, of course), so she immediately sat opposite the football player, taking a delicate sip from her cup. "Still hot," she remarked in mild surprise.

Blaine smiled. "Being 'fashionably late' is a strictly amateur hour trick, Santana. So I didn't order until three minutes ago."

She nodded in grudging respect. "Very good."

"So." Blaine leaned over the table. "You and me, huh? After all this time? I guess it was inevitable, wasn't it?"

"In a way. Like I said, I think you could use a friend. One who'll help you keep your secret?"

Blaine's mouth twitched. "Secret?"

"That you're gay."

The shop buzzed at a dull roar with activity and active discussion all around them. But to Blaine's ears, the silence that crashed upon him was deafening. "That's ridiculous," he burst out. "Who's been telling you that? Why on earth would you think...?"

"Oh, stop insulting my intelligence. No one told me a goddamn thing. I have eyes, you know." Santana took a long drink of her coffee, luxuriating in the admittedly well-suppressed panic she saw in Blaine's eyes. "Next time Mike Chang plays wet t-shirt contest, you really should pick your jaw up off the floor before someone notices."

"..." Blaine tried to get his throat working again. "I... You're crazy... that doesn't mean a thing..."

"Nice try, but I've been watching you closely for a while now. Been asking some... questions of your exes. Oh, sure, I'd heard some things that made me wonder before, but I just thought that was because of a pene pequeño issue. But now... believe me, I know."

"So you spread a rumor. Who cares?" Blaine finally declared, trying to sound more confident than he felt. "I'll just tell everyone you're lying to hurt me. Everyone knows what a vicious, backstabbing whore you are."

"Flattery will get you nowhere," Santana smirked. "Anyway, they may not believe me at first. But can you keep everyone from asking questions? Maybe asking the same ones of the same ex-girlfriends that I did? How long do you think it'll be before everything comes out then? Especially when all I need to do is write one little anonymous e-mail to Jacob ben Israel?"

Blaine rubbed his forehead, trying to ease the throbbing that was only matched by the rabbit-beats of his heart.

"Well?" Santana prompted. There was another silence.

"Fine," he whispered. "Fine." This time, the word was firmer. "What do you want? Money?"

Santana burst out into giggles, patting his hand as though he'd told some particularly hilarious joke. "Money?" she repeated. "Oh, God, thanks for the laugh; I needed that. No, no. What I want is to offer you a... partnership." She leaned forward conspiratorially. "Do you know what a beard is?"

Blaine paused. "Yeah. You're offering...?"

Santana nodded. "If anyone's suspicious of your little hard-on for Hummel - and don't think I haven't wondered about that - you think they'll still be entertaining it once I tell them what a tiger you are in bed? Like you said, I'm a whore, so they'll believe me, especially when I break out the... intimate details."

"You... you'd do that? Why? What's in it for you?"

"Ah, thought you'd never ask. You're going to help me get Kurt back to McKinley..."

Blaine's eyes widened. "What? I thought you said you didn't care..."

"My reasons are my own. Be nice, and I'll share one of these days. The other thing I want is to win prom queen."

"But... that's not for months! Why are you worrying about that now?"

Santana sighed. "Because, Anderson," she said slowly and condescendingly, as though explaining basic math to a particularly stubborn child, "you've been a complete creep, and making Kurt feel safe again and overhauling your image is going to be a slow, painstaking process. We need to start now."

"And my image needs overhauling why...?"

"Because we all know you've got the popular kid vote locked up. But the losers vote too, and we're going to need the crossover." She took Blaine's hand into hers. "But don't you worry your curly little head off. Auntie Tana has a plan for that."

And she told him. By the end of her recital, Blaine's frown had deepened. "You're kidding."

"Not about this, I'm not."

"The whole thing sounds... lame."

"It is, but it's the best way to get the overall popularity we'll need."

Blaine shook his head. "But if I do this, my rep will actually get worse."

"That's a risk I'm willing to take. Look, I wouldn't be suggesting this if I didn't think it'd work. Without your popularity, you're useless."

"Useless to you, you mean."

"Yeah, sure, whatever." Santana stared at him grimly. "Let me put it this way. You have two options: you can go along, and maybe make up for what cred you lose among those idiots you think are your friends with the props you get from the teachers, not to mention the geeks and other zeroes you look down on. Besides, being led around by the nose by a girl is very hetero." She paused. "Or you can get up and walk right now, and I'll get the rumor mill in motion and you'll lose everything, once everyone realizes how huge a hypocrite you are. Your choice."

"Some choice." Blaine squeezed Santana's hand, surprisingly gently considering his stormy face. "Fine," he said through gritted teeth. "I'll do it. Darling."

Santana gave him a dazzling smile. "See? That wasn't so hard, was it, sweetie? Now, let's nail down the practical stuff. I have an uncle who runs a sporting goods store, and..."

"Ooooh, no. Let's stop right there. If I'm going to be risking my clout at McKinley, I am not going to do it looking like an idiot."

"So what do you suggest?"

This time it was Blaine who broke into a grin. He reached into his pocket, taking out a leather wallet. His fingers dipped inside, pulling out a slick black plastic rectangle. "I suggest a high limit credit card whose charges only an overworked accountant looks at." Santana's eyes lit up with greed. She snatched the card from him, staring at it as if seeing her own ideal reflection in it. "Try not to drool on it."

She looked up with a Cheshire cat smile. "Oh, this is gonna be a lot more fun than I thought, honey buns..."

"Okay, if you're going to be my... beard..." He choked a little on the word. "I have to insist on no more vomit-inducing nicknames, okay?"

Santana's smile turned poisonously sweet. "Whatever you say, snookie." Blaine snorted.

It was a cold, blustery afternoon when the McKinley High School Titans performed "She's Not There". Finn and Blaine alternated stanzas, sharing the choruses as Artie and Sam backed them both up on harmony. Several times throughout the performance, Blaine caught Finn giving him wide-eyed looks. If nothing else happened, seeing that surprise was well worth it.

After the song ended and Mr. Schuester sang their praises, the group filed out of the auditorium. Blaine was about to follow, but he was stopped by a hand on his shoulder. "Evans?"

"Hey..." Sam's face scrunched up, as if he were unsure what his next words would be, an action made even more surreal by the zombie make-up he still wore. "I just wanted to say that you were good. Really."

Blaine blinked. "Uh... thanks?"

Sam sighed. "Look, we both know you're an asshole..."

"Oh, I fully acknowledge that..."

"But you're a talented asshole. You got a voice on you."

"Thanks again, Evans, but I'm not sure why you're telling me this...?"

"Both Coach and Mr. Schue say we're supposed to be working together. And the better we get along, the better we'll work together."

Blaine raised an eyebrow. "And you're hoping that Hummel will come back if I'm converted to the Glee Club cause too?"

Sam had the grace to actually look a little ashamed. "We gotta do what we gotta do," he said quietly.

"Yeah." The silence descended again. "Well, for what it's worth... it was kind of fun." To his surprise, he found himself actually meaning it.

Sam, however, didn't know that either way. He shrugged. "Sure. I'm going to get this makeup off."

"Yeah, same here. Later." Blaine left without another word as he reflected. That was the longest conversation with Evans I think I've ever had... As he walked down the halls, he saw a knot of red lettermans ahead. "Hey, guys! What's...?" He stopped cold as the group turned towards him. Their hair and fronts were dripping wet; the makeup on a couple of their faces were running down their necks in colored rivulets. "What happened...?"

"The hockey team!" George Peyton burst out. "The fucking puckheads! They slushied us, Blaine! Slushied! Us!"

Blaine gaped. "They... what...?"

"It's this halftime show crap," Jermaine Andrews declared. "It's made them grow balls!"

"We can't do this, Blaine," Chris Strando declared. "We can't. We'll all be pariahs for sure."

"Wait, hold on!" Finn shouted. "You guys can't back out now!"

"Watch us," Peyton snapped.

"What about the championship?" Mike Chang asked. "You know Coach won't let you play if you quit now."

"Then I guess we aren't gonna be playing," Strando rumbled quietly. As they talked, the formerly unified group split again, Glee Club versus non-Glee Club. The latter group began stalking away. Strando turned towards Blaine. "C'mon. We've had enough."

Blaine blinked, his expression and voice both still dazed. "What...?" There was a long pause. Strando's expression soon fell into a confused frown.

"Blaine?"

"W... Oh. Yeah. I'm coming." As he followed his friends, he took a look back at the Glee Club contingent. Blaine had no idea what he looked like at that moment, but their angry faces turned confused at what they saw. He quickly turned back and hurried away without another word.

Dave had often been teased lightly by the other Warblers for his musical tastes; Thad once called him "a crusty old man" for daring to listen to artists whose faces did not grace teenagers' bedroom walls. Not that he was offended, of course; he knew it was just jokey retaliation for his efforts to turn the Warblers away from their somewhat single-minded obsession with the contemporary Billboard Top 40. So he couldn't really begrudge them returning to their "roots" once in a while.

At least "Bills, Bills, Bills" was recorded before 2005. Nonetheless, he was more than glad to join Kurt and the others in harmony as Nick took lead. Dave knew he was far from a Beyonce in almost every conceivable way.

Not long after, they joined Mercedes and Rachel for coffee. Though he'd heard quite a bit about the latter from Kurt, it was the first time Dave had met Rachel in person. He thought he was prepared for the real thing, but he was actually quite mistaken.

"Is she for real?" he whispered to Kurt at one point while she was busy reciting the events of the previous few days in agonizing and dramatic detail, complete with sweeping hand motions.

"Scary, isn't it?"

"...But with the trouble they've been causing, it's little wonder everything is in disarray. And now they've all quit! Haven't they ever heard of 'the show must go on'?"

Kurt blinked. "Wow. That's..." He struggled to find the right word. "...something."

Mercedes nodded sagely. "Both Mr. Schue and Coach Beiste are scrambling now. Neither of them have enough people to do what they need to do. I have no idea what's gonna happen on game night."

"Wait a second, wait a second..." Dave shook his head, his mind still echoing with one particular portion of the whole recitation. "Anderson was willing to sing? And he was good?"

"I'm as surprised as you are," Rachel said. "Though I appreciate the layer of tragic irony it adds. Becoming what you hate... It's such a classic storyline."

Dave and Kurt couldn't help but exchange a glance. "It definitely is," Kurt rasped in a somewhat strangled voice.

"Funny thing is... he was liking it," Mercedes added. "That's what the guys seemed to think, anyway. Can you imagine Anderson in the Glee Club?"

Kurt shuddered. "No, thank you. I want to get to sleep tonight."

"You're still coming to the game, aren't you?" Mercedes asked.

"Of course. Finn's still going to be quarterback either way. Although without a team around him..." Kurt turned to Dave. "Hey, do you want to come?"

"I dunno... Football's not exactly my thing..."

"It'll be fun! We'll all go out to dinner with Finn and the others afterward, so we can make a night of it. They've been dying to meet you anyway."

Dave raised an eyebrow at this, but eventually nodded. "Sure. Why not?"

Kurt's face burst out into a smile; he didn't even see Mercedes and Rachel exchange their own glance at this. "Great! We'll drive down Friday night; I'm sure Dad won't mind if I take the couch while you..."

"Stop right there, Kurt. I'm couch material, and you know it."

Kurt eyed him up and down, an act which turned Dave beet red. "Not if you're anything like Finn. Let him nap even half an hour on an average sized couch, and his neck and legs ache for days."

"Seriously, I'll be fine on the couch. Really. I'm not as massive as I look. Though no offense..." Dave sipped at the dregs of his coffee as he turned back to the two girls. "Right now, it sounds like the whole thing is shaping up to be a complete disaster."

Rachel shrugged. "No, it's fair. But we'll turn it around."

Dave couldn't help but grin. "Now that I'm interested in seeing."

Over the past few eventful days, Blaine was starting to come to a conclusion, one that chilled him to the bone. He'd driven away Kurt Hummel because he wanted to keep his image, his very sense of self, from cracking, to keep the tiniest flaw from forming.

But it was very clear now: he was far too late for that. He had been from the start.

He felt extremely foolish to not have seen it before, actually. It had been over the instant that locker room… incident happened. If there was ever the chance he could have kept himself together, kept his life perfect as it was before, he would never have had to resort to the measures he had in the first place. It was so simple and logical that Hudson could've seen it.

That was why his trick at the last game and the resulting fights were so unsatisfactory. That was why he'd given in to that wild urge to suggest the warmup number. That was why he was letting himself enjoy the singing, the dancing. Because on some level, he knew that his efforts were futile, that there was no going back to the way things were. On some level, he knew that all that was left was damage control and dealing with the consequences.

It was a scary, almost tragic realization. But at the same time, Blaine Anderson had never felt so free in his life.

But that left the biggest, the hardest, the scariest question of all.

Now what?

"The girls?" Dave burst out. The Hudson-Hummel dinner table conversation had been low key, seeing as how the main course had recently been served, but the outburst brought all other small talk to a screeching halt. "They... they're filling in for the rest of the football team?" Dave continued in a quieter voice, but with no less disbelief.

Finn nodded. "I tried talking Rachel out of it, but she threw the whole 'show must go on' thing in my face. They're determined, man."

"But... aren't they going to get hurt?"

"They said they're just there so we can take the field. They figure they'll just lie down once the play starts. Except Lauren. She's really psyched to get in there."

"Wow." Dave shook his head, taking one last bite of steak (specially grilled in celebratory anticipation of Finn's championship run in less than 24 hours). "That's... just... wow."

"That's all right, Dave, you can say it," Kurt said reassuringly. "The Glee Club is insane. I know it; we all know it."

"Hey!" Finn gasped in only half-mock hurt.

"Even you?" Dave joked.

Kurt lit up with a half-smile, half-smirk. "Oh, especially me."

Dave gave Kurt a light punch on the arm. "I'd better watch out then. People like you are dangerous."

"Oh, yes, very dangerous. Wait until I break out my sai."

Both laughed uproariously as Kurt's hand brushed against Dave's shoulder. Neither saw Carole raise an eyebrow and cast a questioning glance at her husband. Burt returned the glance with a shrug.

"So, Dave," Carole cut in, "how's your father?"

"He's fine. Oh, Mr. Hummel, Dad says he's made some progress. He'll update you next week."

Burt nodded. "Tell him thanks for me."

"Will do."

"Hey, Dave, I gotta rest up for tomorrow," Finn said, "but before I get to bed, want to play TF2 for a while?"

"Hell, yeah. I was feeling like kicking some ass."

"You should see him, Kurt," Finn enthused. "He plays the best Sniper I've ever seen. He's taken headshots I still can't believe. Boom!"

Kurt winced. "How... charming."

Carole rose. "Looks like we're ready for the pie...?"

"Oh, yeah!" Finn cried, leaping from his chair. "Wait 'til you taste this, Dave. You'll never eat anyone else's pie again."

"Finn, Dave, do you mind helping me serve?"

Dave got up. "No problem, Mrs. Hummel." The three retreated into the kitchen, leaving father and son at the table.

"So..." Burt began.

Kurt raised an eyebrow. "So...?"

"Dave's been a good friend to you, hasn't he?"

"Yes... What's your point, Dad?"

Burt sighed. "Come on, kid. I think we've been through this at least once before. I can tell: you want something from him more than just friendship, don't you?"

Kurt swallowed. "So what if I do?"

"Look, Kurt, no good is going to come of just keeping those feelings inside. You want my advice? You should tell him what you want. Both of you deserve that."

Kurt shook his head, as if in denial. "It's complicated, Dad..."

"Yeah, well, emotions usually are. But they're also the most rewarding to work out. Believe me, I know." Burt smiled a faraway smile, and Kurt couldn't help wonder who his father was thinking of at that moment; he felt a little bad for hoping it was his mother. "I won't pretend to know everything that's going on. I'm just saying that if you want to guarantee movement, you'll have to take the initiative."

After a long moment of thought, Kurt finally nodded. "Thanks, Dad. I have a lot to think about..." At that moment, the rest of the dinner party returned with hands laden in plates of pie and ice cream. "But right now, that is all I can think about. God, I'm going up three sizes just looking at it."

"That mean I can have your share?" Dave cut in.

"No! Keep your grubby mitts to yourself, prep school boy!" In moments, the laughter was smothered under the sounds of chewing and slurping. Watching his son and Dave joke and jab, Burt Hummel couldn't help but pray to every god he could think of, and the spirit of his late beloved Elizabeth, that Kurt would take his advice, before it was too late…