AN: Watching the fans of Dave's character flail over recent spoilers is sort of cute/amusing. Not that I look down on it; I understand it. It's just fun to see the squee. :) And it's good for me too; if I do season 3, an event like some are theorizing about for canon Dave would be perfect for one of AU Blaine's potential story arcs, so… We'll see.
The chain started with Finn Hudson…
"I'm going in!"
"Wait! I have to…"
"Fuck! Heavy at 3 o'clock!"
"I've got him! Just go!"
"Hey! The Pyro is…"
BLAM!
"Got the mother!"
"Shit!"
"Ha ha!"
"We got it!"
"Red rocks!"
"Great job, guys!"
"Fuck! Fucking Sniper's fucking gay!"
"Yeah, I am. So the fuck what?"
"Fucking fag! I should..."
Dave rolled his eyes. Like he hadn't heard, seen, and been part of worse than a few spews from some random Xbox Live player. He switched his headset feed back to his private chat with Finn.
"Good work, dude," Finn's voice said warmly.
"Thanks, you too." Dave wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. At the beginning of their video gaming together, Finn had felt obligated to apologize for every homophobic remark slung Dave's way. It was a little irritating, but understandable; Kurt was his stepbrother, after all, and Dave understood that Finn felt a need to redeem himself, if Kurt's stories about the way the two used to interact was any indication. If there was one thing Dave knew, it was wanting redemption.
It took a while, but Dave finally weaned Finn from his constant apologia. "It's okay," he'd said. "You're not responsible for every immature, small-minded asswipe who says something offensive over the Internet. Seriously, I can handle it." It seemed to get through, because that was the last time he'd had to make that speech.
"The Blues were pretty disorganized, though," Finn-in-the-present continued. "Made it easy to herd 'em into your sights."
"Ah, well, as awesome as I am, I won't take all the credit. Team effort, Finn, team effort."
"Yeah." He heard movement on the other end of the chat, followed by rustling and clomping. "You sound like you're doing good lately."
"Well, I'm a little out of practice, but I think I..."
"No, I mean in general. You used to put yourself down all the time, no matter what I said. You tried to make out like you were kidding, but I knew better. You don't do that anymore."
Not out loud, Dave thought, though even that was a sort of progress, not to mention becoming a little easier to manage every day. He shrugged, not remembering for a moment that Finn couldn't see him. "Yeah, well, that shit gets as tiresome as people apologizing all the time for douches they don't even know." A chuckle came from Finn's end; Dave smiled. "I've got some... stuff I'm working out."
"Hey, dude, I understand," Finn replied quietly. There was a deep huff, a sigh magnified by however close his mike was to his mouth. "Look, I'm not sure I should tell you this, but..."
"Well, if it's not good, don't tell me," Dave replied with a laugh.
"No, I'm being serious, dude. You're my friend, but Kurt's my brother... Maybe he doesn't even realize what he's doing, and..."
"Kurt?" Dave's heart pounded in his ears, his back straightening in his chair. "Is something wrong with Kurt?"
"What? No, he's fine... sorta. He's..." There was a brief pause. Then Finn's voice came through in almost a shout. "I think Kurt's cheating on you."
"Cheating on...? Finn, we're not dating. We're friends. You know, like you and me."
"Whatever you and Kurt got going, it is not like you and me," Finn shot back with a smirk in his voice. "Seriously, Rachel and I..."
"Need to mind your own business," Dave cut in. "If Kurt wants to date someone, that's fine with me." He stopped for a moment, a little surprised at the unexpected amount of truth in the words. Dave found himself a little torn at how to react to this information. "Hell, maybe I should congratulate him," he continued. "He should..."
"It's Sam!" Finn burst out.
"Sam...? You mean Glee Club Sam?"
"Yeah. They've been meeting at a motel, and..."
Dave had to cover his mike so Finn didn't hear his laughter. He remembered being startled the first time he'd opened the door to the Dalton main hall to get the pizza and saw that familiar face, which immediately blushed in embarrassment and shame. They'd talked; Kurt's knowledge and involvement came up, which cleared up some rather puzzling behavior on his part, like that time Kurt had insisted on not only being the one to meet the delivery guy, but giving him a huge tip. Dave had tried to offer aid, even asking his father for possible job leads for Sam's parents, but nothing had come of it yet, and Sam had been at least mildly resistant to Dave's efforts. "I appreciate it, but we'll figure something out," he'd said, with a tired, defeated look that Dave had seen way too many times in the mirror.
His mirth finally receding, Dave removed his hand from his mike. "Don't worry about it, Finn. Really."
"Yeah, but..."
"I know you like us both, but believe me: this isn't any of your concern. You don't need to worry about me or it. Trust me."
"O-okay," Finn said reluctantly. "But if he's not cheating on you, then what..."
"I told you, there's nothing between us for him to cheat on," Dave said firmly, all too conscious of how he was so nakedly avoiding Finn's real question. "Now are you gonna talk or are we going to kick more ass?"
"Kick more ass!" Finn squealed with almost childish glee. Dave smiled, turning back to his TV and gripping his controller tightly. At least, he thought, that nonsense was over and done with...
It continued on to Rachel Berry...
"... And he said it wasn't anything to worry about," Finn concluded.
Rachel cocked her head and tapped her chin in thought. "It's touching how much faith people have in Kurt."
Finn frowned at the thought. "Maybe... we should be having more faith in him ourselves?"
"Finn, we saw what we saw. Besides, perhaps David is telling the truth, and there really are no romantic inclinations between them. In that case, Kurt would see his assignations with Sam as harmless."
"I suppose, but... what about Quinn?"
Rachel's face darkened. "What about her?"
"She's part of the rumor too. Do you really think that she and Kurt...?"
Finn was nearly thrown physically backwards by the screech of laughter that issued from that flawlessly trained throat in front of him. "Oh, Finn, your sense of humor is so charming!"
"Uh, thanks... I guess..." He wandered - or perhaps staggered - off, his finger digging in his ear in an attempt to relieve the ringing.
And from Rachel, it linked to Santana...
Rachel watched Finn disappear down the hall, her heart a whirl of emotion (that really could become a terrific song for Nationals). She turned, nearly crashing headlong into Santana. Rachel squeaked, jumping back; Santana had been in a nasty mood lately, even for her, ever since the Muckraker printed speculation about that YouTube video. Brittany had calmly explained what she meant at the last Glee Club rehearsal (at Santana's insistence, to Mr. Schue's and Rachel's own annoyance), but Rachel had no illusions that it would end anything. With Coach Sylvester at the helm of the paper, and Becky Jackson and Azimio Adams just itching for revenge for the Night of Neglect, this whole mess was not going to end any time soon.
"Watch where you're going, Dinklage," Santana barked, bringing Rachel abruptly back to the present.
Even with the distinct feeling that her life was in imminent peril, Rachel couldn't bring herself to apologize. "Ah..." She mentally kicked herself for being at such a loss for words. Then again, she wasn't the only one; Blaine Anderson was torn, she could tell that. During Bully Whips meetings, she could see him practically trembling with the effort it took to restrain himself. Two warring instincts, battling it out against each other: to comfort his girlfriend, and the realization that in her mood, she would probably bite him in two if he tried. She had to admit it was rather sweet; she could remember a time not long ago when she would've sworn that the Philistine didn't have it in him. Well, she was woman enough to admit when she was wrong.
"Well, well. Nothing to say?" Santana sneered. "Maybe I should have fucking slander printed about me more often if it'll get you to shut your trap for a few minutes."
Rachel's indignation stirred. "For your information, you're not the only victim of the high school grapevine."
"Oh, that's right, the big threesome. Gotta wonder what Karofsky thinks about his boy toy stepping out, huh?"
"Actually," Rachel said with upturned nose, reveling in having exclusive information, "he doesn't care."
Santana raised an eyebrow. "Doesn't care, huh?"
"No. In fact, he said..."
"Whoa ho..." Rachel frowned, but quickly realized that Santana's exclamation wasn't directed towards her, but something over her shoulder. She turned; Sam was walking down the hall, wearing an Earth Day jacket that she distinctly remembered on the shoulders of Kurt Hummel just months before. "Quinn's a lucky girl, isn't she?" Santana cackled with waggling eyebrows.
A dozen conflicting thoughts and feelings shot through Rachel all at once. One managed to drown out the others: talk to Kurt! Without another word, she hurried off, leaving Santana feeling somehow better than she had in days.
Santana continued the chain to Brittany...
The last notes of "Songbird" faded from their throats and the piano. Neither girl saw or heard Brad gingerly rise from the bench and make his discreet way out of the room.
"I'm not sorry," Santana said flatly, as if trying to cut off words that weren't yet said. "I refuse to be sorry that I have a chance to be happy."
"I know," Brittany said softly. "I just..."
"Yeah." Santana suddenly felt very small under Brittany's wet, wide gaze. "I'll do it," she said before she had a chance to change her mind. "I'll be on 'Fondue for Two.' And I'll sure as hell go to the prom with you."
Brittany's face glowed, a warmth that melted Santana's heart in seconds. "Really?" The glow faded. "But... what about Blaine?"
"He'll understand," she said dismissively.
"Aren't you running for Prom Queen...?"
"Who said the King and Queen had to actually come together?" Santana took Brittany's hands in hers. "I said it's fine. And I even have a funny story to tell your audience when I get there. I just heard that Karofsky doesn't even care that Kurt's stepping out on him with Quinn and Sam."
Brittany cocked her head. "How is that funny?"
"Hey, I find it hilarious." Santana's hands squeezed Brittany's. "I'll see you soon."
At the time, she meant it. She really, genuinely meant it. That knowledge would be the only thing that sustained her in the weeks to come.
From here, the process melted into the background. Brittany let it slip to Azimio Adams, who joked about it with George Peyton...
"It's ridiculous!" Kurt was on a tear, and Dave knew better than to interrupt. He simply nodded politely to indicate he was listening while he sipped his Italian soda. "I can't believe they're so focused on idiotic rumors and sticking their noses where it doesn't belong when Nationals is practically here!"
"They're curious," Dave shrugged. "Human nature."
"Oh, they're curious, all right." Kurt snorted. "I love them - I do - but I just wish they'd listen once in a while instead of just doing whatever comes into their heads!"
"Yeah, well, if that were in human nature, the world would have a lot fewer problems." Dave stared at the table for a moment, as if lost in thought at something he'd said. Kurt drank his coffee as he patiently waited for Dave's meandering mind to return home. It took only a few seconds more for Dave's head to whip back up. "Oh! Almost forgot - the Warblers are having their annual party at my place this year. Wanna come?"
Kurt was almost surprised at his immediate, visceral reaction. "I don't know..." He gently swirled his coffee cup, his eyes following the spiraling ripples. "It's not that I don't want to see them again, but it feels kind of... awkward..."
"I understand," Dave said. "But we'd all love it if you came. It'll be a full house; my mom's visiting for the weekend, along with..."
"Grandpa Murray?" Kurt's hand clutched at Dave's arm in hope and wide-eyed eagerness. "I'd get to meet Grandpa Murray?"
"Yeah..." Dave's lips curled into a smile. "So you think you'll be coming?"
Kurt's neck nearly broke from nodding. "Wild horses couldn't drag me away!"
George Peyton mentioned it to Nellie Collins over dinner, who texted to Allen Rusch...
Blaine tapped his fingers on his desk as he clicked the "Refresh" button for what had to be the twentieth time in the past half hour. The latest episode of "Fondue for Two" still had yet to start.
He'd been afraid something like this was coming ever since that first episode came out (an unfortunate turn of phrase, but there you go). There was only so much you could hear about "sexy Brittany" this and "fucking Abrams should die in a fire" that before you got the message. Hell, Blaine was pleasantly surprised that Santana deigned to tell him her plans at all. Sure, it'd been a "I'm doing this, you're not changing my mind, and we'll decide on damage control after," but it was a hell of a lot more than he expected.
He glanced at his watch. The show was supposed to have started eight minutes ago. Were they running late for some reason? Mental images of Santana and Brittany making out madly, heedless of the time, flitted through his head (and completely failed to do anything for him, a fact which was still kind of depressing). Okay, one more refresh, then maybe he'd be able to do homework without thinking of...
His bedroom door flew open. The only thought he was able to start as he jumped was that only one person he knew was actually capable of doing that with such force.
"Santana!" The young woman herself stomped in, throwing herself onto Blaine's bed with a force that made the springs creak. She quickly scrambled into a sitting position, taking a despairing look at her phone. "How the hell did you get..." He trailed off as he saw her face: scrunched, wet, streaked with runny make-up, trembling lip as if ready to burst out into sobs at any moment. "Santana?"
"I couldn't do it," she choked. "I was going to, and I... just couldn't do it..."
Without a word, Blaine sat on the bed next to her and wrapped her in a hug. She threw her arms around him, her wrenching bawling quickly soaking through his shirt. He wasn't sure how long they sat there, how long Santana cried. He only knew it felt a lot later by the time they finally separated, with her sucking in the snot that was threatening to run out her nose.
"We've done this before, haven't we?" she sniffed.
"Yeah, we really gotta stop meeting like this," Blaine said with a small smile.
Santana groaned as she fumbled in her purse for a tissue and wiped her eyes. "God, I'm pathetic. Every time I need someone, I run to the closeted jerk jock coward who can't even solve his own pitiful issues."
"Well, you know what they say: misery loves company. We're both miserable, so we love each other's company."
"Speak for yourself."
"What, you're not miserable right now?" Blaine got no reply. "Thought so."
"You don't have to pretend you're not relieved," Santana snapped. "Now your precious little hetero image won't be threatened."
Blaine shook his head. "I was thinking about it before, but from the second you came in, that never entered my mind."
"Yeah, right."
"It didn't, San." He stared her right in the eyes, his gaze never wavering.
"Holy shit..." Her jaw almost literally dropped. "It really didn't..." Santana stared; her eyes were glimmering with moisture, more vulnerable than Blaine had ever seen them, than he could ever have imagined. It took her a long time to speak again. "Can we pretend?" she whispered.
"Pretend what?"
"That we're straight. That we give a fuck about each other. That we're a happy normal hetero couple who aren't pining for someone else. I just want... need to feel normal for a few minutes. Please?" This last word was so low that he almost missed it.
Santana's despair was starting to scare him, but what scared him more was that he understood. "Sure. Anything for you."
She snickered, a sound that was, to Blaine's great relief, a little more like herself. "I didn't say we could start yet."
Blaine opened his mouth, then shut it again. "Fine, whatever."
Santana closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, as if in preparation. Finally, she opened them again. "Okay, now."
Blaine pulled Santana close to him as they looked each other in the eyes. Slowly, they sank onto the bed, lying there, tangled up in each other like vines. It was an intimate position, one that they both knew would go no further than that. Yet it helped the pretense for them both. It helped a lot. Blaine wasn't sure how long they were like that - an hour? A year? A century?
"I love you," Santana said. He wasn't sure if she was still pretending.
"I love you too," he replied. He definitely was not.
Allen Rusch mentioned it to his sister, who tweeted about it, which was read by Vickie Lucas...
Kurt wasn't quite sure what he expected from a gathering of Warblers. On one hand, they were Daltonites, which brought expectations of high tea and crumpets. On the other hand, they were also teenage boys, which brought expectations of beer and porn on TV (which always struck Kurt as a tad less heterosexual than some made it out to be).
But he'd forgotten that this was being held at Dave's house, with three adults wandering about with eagle eyes. So the party was relatively sedate in that sense, with no drink stronger than soda, R rated movies at best, a den turned into a game room (which was currently hosting the last four players in a poker tournament and a rousing game of a board game called Small World), and, to Kurt's surprise, a karaoke machine.
The Warblers freely passed from activity to activity, talking and laughing and tossing Kurt the occasional question, some of which were less awkward than others. Kurt handled them with aplomb (helped partly by Dave giving conveniently timed death glares when the questions got a little too focused towards the two of them); unfortunately, there was one thing he couldn't handle - or at least, that his digestive system couldn't handle.
It was simply the quantity of food. Burgers, chips, chocolate covered almonds, the occasional celery stick dipped in ranch so he didn't feel like he was inflating his waistline every second. Kurt got up from the sofa, said his "I'll be right back"s to Trent and Barry, and went off in search of a bathroom, his stomach making these perfectly awful sounds. He struggled to remember the directions Dave had given earlier, each closed door looking more the same the more seconds that passed. Let's see... second door on the... right? He reached for the doorknob, but stopped when he heard voices on the other side.
"... don't know what to say, Murray." That was Paul Karofsky's voice. Kurt had met Dave's father once or twice before, back when they were discussing a restraining order against Blaine. Since then, he knew that he and Kurt's own father had been keeping in touch - talking about what, he had no idea. Paul had struck Kurt as a quiet but solid man, and so far, the afternoon did nothing to loosen that impression.
"You have to tell him sooner or later." Ah, Grandpa Murray. The infamous Grandpa Murray. Kurt had been practically trembling in anticipation for the entire drive to Westerville. In some ways, he fit Kurt's mental image almost perfectly: tall and thin, white hair pulled back into a long ponytail, full beard and mustache, the barest tiniest hint of cannabis clinging to his clothes. But in other ways, his expectations were defied: he was wearing a conservative blue button-down shirt and khaki pants - not a single tie-dye or Birkenstock in sight. Not to mention, he was whip-smart and wickedly funny, more than keeping up with guys one third or more his age in coming up with clever lines to mock the DVD of Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen. It was pretty clear where Dave had gotten his own wit from.
Kurt hadn't meant to listen in, even this long, especially with his stomach still mocking him. He meant to quietly slink away and keep searching for the restroom. But before his brain could send his muscles the signal to do so, Paul Karofsky spoke again. "I know. It's just going to break Dave's heart, you know?" That got his attention.
"I wish we could help. But things are pretty tight on our end too."
"I know. Damn economy. I just... I just feel like such a failure."
"Hey." Grandpa Murray's voice turned stern, as if he were addressing one of his kids or grandkids, and not his son-in-law. "You're not a failure. You've done the best you could. Dave will understand."
"Will he? He loves Dalton. And all the good it's done him... It's given him the stability that he really needed. How can I tell him that he may have to leave Dalton and almost all his friends because I don't have the money?"
Kurt managed to successfully stifle his gasp, his roiling intestines forgotten for a brief moment.
"You've still got several months," Murray pointed out. "We can figure something out."
"But what if we can't? You know I had to shoot my credit to hell to get us to Westerville; another loan's out of the question. And if I withdraw from Dave's college fund, he won't have it when he needs it later." Paul's voice was nearing despair. "What if..."
"We don't have time or energy for 'what if's," was the firm reply. "We just do what we have to. If the 'what if' comes, then we deal with it. Not a second before."
A wet chuckle came from the other side of the door. "I'm not Dave or Jack, Murray."
"What can I say? I'm an equal opportunity lecturer."
By now, Kurt had recovered his bearings, and turned away from the door. He got only a few steps before Dave appeared in the hall. "There you are! We're gonna start..." He trailed off. "You don't look so good. What's wrong?"
Fortunately, Kurt had a ready, and actually partly true, excuse. "I, uh, forgot where the bathroom is. And I kind of have to go..." He gave a sheepish grin, instantly disarming the other boy.
"Third door on the left," he chuckled.
Wow, Kurt thought in chagrin. Not even close. "Thanks." He quickly tore open the door, not even knocking first. Fortunately, it was empty; he immediately locked himself in, and almost threw himself onto the toilet. As he let out a sigh of relief and release, he tried not to think of what he'd just heard. There was obviously no way he could tell Dave, not with his father's dilemma clear - besides, what if he found a solution? But he couldn't help but feel like a huge hypocrite; there was no way Dave wouldn't want to know this, yet Kurt was keeping it from him, deliberately, because of his own discomfort. It struck a little too close to home, no matter how unreasonable the comparison was.
His business done, Kurt soon returned to the party. The food was definitely taking its toll on the others too; the conversation was less loud and boisterous. Theo Kaplan was even napping in Paul Karofsky's recliner. Kurt made his way to the kitchen to find himself another bottle of Diet Coke. Grandpa Murray was already there, scooping vanilla ice cream into bowls. "Sundaes?" Kurt asked as he opened the large blue cooler on the nook table. "You spoil us."
"What do you kids have to do with any of this? This is all mine, bitches!" He cackled, a high pitched, crackling sound. Kurt found his soda and started to leave, when Grandpa Murray spoke up again. "Do you mind talking with an old man for a minute in private?"
Kurt turned back, his eyebrows rising. "Of course."
"Thanks; I've been waiting all week to meet you."
Kurt considered a "same here," but decided it would actually be a little creepy. "Really? Why's that?"
Grandpa Murray's eyes were twinkling. "I just had to meet the kid who's made my grandson so happy."
Kurt felt a heated blush rise on his cheeks. "Well, Dave's done a lot for me too."
"I know. And a lot to you." The older man shook his head. "Just like his mother: a little too impulsive for his own good."
That surprised Kurt; Diane Patton Karofsky hadn't struck him as the impulsive type. She seemed so introverted, so unassuming; her greeting to Kurt had been so low key that Dave had to tell him later that it didn't mean she didn't like him. Then again, as with Murray and his wit, Dave's own habit of navel-gazing had to come from somewhere.
"He's been working so hard, trying to make up for what he did to you," Murray continued. "I don't live around here, so I don't get to see David as much as I'd like, but that I know for sure." He went to the cooler and pulled out a bottle of soda of his own, with his preferred poison a root beer. He took a deep swig before speaking again. "He... thought he had to put up shields. Not to keep himself from getting hurt, but to keep him from hurting other people."
"But..."
"I know, I know. I'm just saying what he thought. I've known the kid his entire life, so believe me, I know how he thinks. Or doesn't, at times. He puts up all kinds of fronts sometimes, depending on what he thinks he needs to do to get out of the moment whole..." Kurt couldn't help but feel a more than nagging familiarity at that description. "But he's been showing more and more of himself these past few years." Murray smiled. "Guess that's why you like him so much."
"He's been a good friend." There really wasn't much more Kurt could think to say.
"Good. I'd have to kick his ass if he wasn't." Murray returned to his ice cream scoop. "I'm not tryin' to interfere with the two of you. I'm just a freeze-dried hippie giving an opinion. A completely biased opinion, but one all the same. All I know is that ever since David met you... He's been better and happier than I've ever seen him. And he's actually starting to come around recently... be more confident. I'd always hoped it would happen, but... Well, again, I have a feeling it's because of you."
"I..." Again, what else was there to say? "I'm glad."
"There you are!" Wes strode into the kitchen, sending Kurt flailing to get into a casual pose. Murray merely continued his service. "Need any help with the desserts, sir?"
"Mighty kind of you, Wesley. Mind if you grab the chocolate sauce and the strawberries?"
"No problem."
In that moment, Kurt hated Wes more than he'd ever hated any human being. It wasn't fair, but then, Wes's interruption hadn't been either. He needed to make Wes squirm. And he knew just how to do it.
He stifled a smile as he said, "So... how're the GSA activities going?"
Wes stiffened, his left eye twitching. "Ah... Just fine."
"What are you guys up to these days?" Kurt took a casual sip of Diet Coke.
"Oh, you know. Usual. Meetings. Organizing. We're starting a drive to reach out to public schools, get their own GSAs started. We go to Garvey High next week."
"Ah. So whose idea was that?"
"Mine!" The suddenness of the answer was the only indication that it was at all false; on the whole, Wes was much better than David at the whole deception business. "I just thought... it was a good plan."
Kurt's expression was impressively impassive. "Well, I applaud you. That was certainly a wonderful idea."
Wes began to fidget. "Uh... thanks."
Murray had turned around by this point, an odd look on his face that told Kurt that he knew too, and had also made similar promises. "Wesley... Why don't you start serving now?"
"Yes! I will!" The younger man immediately snatched up a pair of bowls and practically ran out of the room. Murray cast his odd look at Kurt, who simply shrugged and finished his soda.
From Vickie Lucas, the chain extended to Morrie Latham, and from there to Robbie Masters...
Blaine turned the paper over in his hands, its surface well-worn with wrinkles. His stare went from paper to phone, and back to paper. He hadn't even had the courage to program the number in; why the fuck did he think he was going to call it?
And why, for that matter, did he think Karofsky would be interested in what Blaine had to say? What could Mr. Perfect Out Prep Boy possibly know about what he was going through?
And yet...
Dinner was where it had all started. It'd started like a normal evening at the Anderson home, Blaine chowing down on his steak and kidney pie while his mother chewed delicately and his father sipped at a glass of wine. The normalcy had quickly gone down the drain, however, when his father actually spoke before the coffee was served.
"I talked with Rod Remington today. You know, the news anchor?"
Blaine had looked up from his plate, startled. "Uh huh?"
"He mentioned that he was thinking of doing a story on you. About the anti-bullying club you and your girlfriend started."
The one you didn't tell us about, Blaine's head had automatically filled in. He wasn't exactly sure how he'd come to the conclusion that he could hide the Bully Whips from his parents forever, or even why he was doing so. But as the days turned to weeks turned to months, his guard began to relax. But of all the ways he'd feared being exposed, being ratted out by a slick-haired, pearl-toothed, walking breathing cardboard cutout was not in the top ten. Or even top hundred.
"Why didn't you tell us?" his mother had asked gently. "This is such a wonderful thing you're doing."
"I think it's rather... creative," his father had added with a somewhat sour look. "Certainly something that will help you in the future. Still, I can't see why..."
"I'm sorry," Blaine had burst out. "I should've told you before..."
"You certainly should have," his father had rumbled.
"But... I guess it just slipped my mind. I was so busy, and so were you guys. It just... became a habit after a while that I just didn't think was worth mentioning."
"I don't believe that." Blaine had blinked, startled; such a statement was certainly in his mother's character - direct, plain, firm - but it was also infused with other emotions he couldn't quite place. Disappointment? Concern? Relief? "But... we can talk about that later. We're just so proud of you."
Wait, what?
"This kind of civic work and sense of responsibility is exactly what being an Anderson is all about," his father had declared.
Oh. That sounded a lot more like the parents he knew.
His mother had picked up the thread. "But at the same time, I... we think it's wonderful the way you're helping others with your own hands and your own time. It... really shows how much you've grown."
Blaine had blinked once more. Now those were sentiments he hadn't been expecting. But then... when had he started thinking of his parents as some sort of robots, or mere supervisors? Wasn't one of his earliest memories of going to a water park (a water park probably filled with common folk) and having the time of his fucking life with his laughing mommy and splashing daddy?
"I'd noticed how much happier you seem these days," his mother had continued. "Santana's a big part of it, isn't it? You really care about her, don't you?"
"Yeah," Blaine had answered, speaking the absolute truth. "I do." Not that he knew why. His parents knew about his parade of girlfriends, knew that this was the longest he'd ever been with any of them - of course it would have to be the lesbian. God only knew why or how they'd gotten so close; Blaine could barely believe it himself. Maybe it was all the time they spent together - the months of planning and frank plotting. Or maybe it was the ways in which they were alike: scared, yearning, confused, daring to hope, just a tiny little bit. Maybe it was the honesty of the relationship; Santana wouldn't stand for any of Blaine's usual masks, so he didn't bother. In exchange, Santana was certainly not going to bull him any shit, not about the things that mattered. However it happened, he was starting to become unable to pretend (at least as well as Santana did) that this was just a casual bearding relationship, doomed to never be anything more.
"Well, I'm glad you've found someone. Though I hope you aren't taking too much on your shoulders," his father had added. "I know you may feel responsible for that complaint brought by that..." He'd cleared his throat. "Homosexual boy, but..."
That was it. That tore it. Blaine had shut down; he'd sleepwalked through the entire rest of dinner, the rest of the conversation a blur. He excused himself as soon as he could and practically ran back to his room, never noticing his father's confused stare and his mother's worried look. He'd locked his bedroom door, thrown himself on his bed, and, for the first time in weeks, plucked that piece of paper out of his dresser drawer.
I was an idiot... To think I actually had hope for a second there... He had to talk to someone, but why Karofsky? Why not Santana? Santana, who was going through so much shit right now, who had similar problems to his, and couldn't even fix her own...
Blaine rubbed his eyes. He shoved the paper back into his dresser drawer. He wouldn't make that call. It's not like Karofsky was even a friend...
Not now.
But...
Maybe...
Maybe?
And finally, the chain completed, going from Robbie Masters to Stu Rathbone to the eager ears of Jacob ben Israel...
Kurt strode confidently down the halls of McKinley, finally feeling like he'd regained some equilibrium. The party had finished superbly, with a good time had by all. He'd actually forgotten all about his conversation with Grandpa Murray for a couple of hours, lost in enjoying the presence of good friends, Dave definitely included.
After the school week started, Sam's revelation of the truth came about. Kurt hated that he'd had to "out" his personal family problems in a way he certainly didn't want and wasn't ready for, but at least it had the effect of putting shame in people who frankly needed shaming. Finn had the chance to show that compassionate side that made Kurt fall for him (though the less thought devoted to that period, the better - it was one that he was uncomfortable talking about even with Dave).
There was still the worrisome report in the Muckraker about Mr. Schuester leaving McKinley for New York, but all in all, it had been a pretty good few days. Nationals was quickly approaching, the opportunity to show the country what he and the other Glee Clubbers were made of. Gavroche had promised more information on NYADA, which was already showing a lot of promise from his own research.
Nothing could bring him down now.
And damn him for tempting fate.
Kurt stopped cold as a microphone was jammed into his face out of nowhere. "Kurt Hummel!" Jacob ben Israel's voice screeched. "How do you respond to reports of you in a swinging foursome with a top Cheerio, a backup quarterback, and a certain gorilla-like Dalton Academy student?"
"..." Kurt gaped.
"How often do you switch partners?" Jacob demanded. "Or do you all merge into one gigantic orgy of rutting flesh?"
"..."
"My viewers demand to know: what obscure kinks are practiced in these nightly bacchanals?"
Later, a huge headline on the JBI blog would declare: "HUMMEL REDUCED TO HYSTERICS BY PROBING QUESTIONS ON SEX LIFE!" Only those who actually dared to click on the video would see that the "hysterics" were absolutely there, but really consisted of hysterical laughter. Dave, timing it on first viewing, would put it at almost a minute and a half ("Sounds about right; I just remember that everything ached."). Dave would also start planning bloody retribution on a certain gossip reporter, if only for the endless ribbing he knew was imminent from his fellow Dalton students ("Do I tie him to the football goalposts before or after the shaving?"). Kurt, fortunately for Jacob, managed to talk him down ("Think of it as an exercise in self-restraint. One that we at McKinley practice daily when it comes to him.")
But it wasn't all bad, in the end. While a reputation as a swinger wasn't exactly one that Kurt particularly wanted, the "involvement" of Sam and Quinn did light up something akin to admiration in fellow students who'd sneered at, or just ignored, him before.
And that was good for hours of entertainment.
Next: An episode many of you have probably been waiting for...