Blaine closed his lips around another cookie. This was so much better than arguing with Kurt…. Stupid Kurt. What did he know about anything anyway? Calling Blaine unhealthy. He sounded like his parents.
Blaine's eyes darted to the letter on his desk, a growing sense of dread coiling in his stomach.
His parents.
Blaine crept through the door, setting his bag on the floor as quietly as he could. The grand foyer he entered would have been large by anyone's standards. To a fourteen year old still awaiting his final growth spurt, it was gigantic. Blaine had barely made it two steps into the room before a shrill, feminine voice was calling him from the living room.
"Blaine, dear! Is that you? Come here, now!"
"Yes, Mother," Blaine said, the impulse trained into him from infancy. Keep your back straight, speak clearly and courteously. Always play the part you're assigned.
The living room was just as enormous as the rest of the house; Father preferred to make a statement. The walls were painted eggshell white and decorated with large photos of elegant stars draped across various props and backgrounds. Against the far wall was a large still of Audrey Hepburn, gazing demurely at the camera with a cigarette hanging from her mouth. And in front of the picture, like a fast forward image, was his mother, her own cigarette crushed between her teeth.
Elaine was a beauty in her younger years, a promising young actress up until the age of nineteen, when her father's money could no longer make up for the drinking, smoking, and cursing at other members of her troupe. Not to mention the bad reviews that seemed to follow every performance. She was a talented performer, but reviewers always seemed to site her "arrogance" and "lack of sincere emotion". One reviewer in particular said in regards to Miss Elaine Ruston's final performance on the London stage, "If Ophelia had loved Hamlet half as much as she appeared to love herself, the production would have been a great success. As it is, Miss Ruston's desperate grabs for the spotlight have come at the cost of her talent, and left many theater goers relieved rather than tear stricken as the actress plunged to a watery grave."
America had given Miss Ruston slightly more success, landing her a few off Broadway roles until a sudden pregnancy by her American boyfriend had ended her career indefinitely. Some people would say Elaine benefitted from it all; her father provided her with a lovely home and a large sum of money, and that, combined with a handsome husband and three beautiful children, should have more than stilled her heart. But old disappointments burned deep, and Elaine glared coldly at her youngest son from beneath stringy brown curls.
"Well, you know why you're here. Take off the shirt, love." Her brown eyes didn't waver as she took another long drag of her cigarette. Blaine obeyed. "Turn around." Blaine turned and mother hummed with disapproval. "What did the doctor say?"
"He said I should be all healed in about a month."
"I know that. We've been rubbing that bloody cream on it every day, haven't we? Did he mention whether it'll scar?"
"He says it shouldn't," Blaine said. Mother sighed.
"Thank heavens. You look wonky enough without a damn scar all up your back. Now put your shirt back on; I can't stand the sight of the damn thing."
Blaine shrugged his shirt back over his shoulders, covering the deep gash in his back from where the baseball bat made contact. A little memento of his first high school dance. His mother dismissed him to practice the piano until dinner.
Dinner at their home was a bit of a procession, much like everything else. When you were the child of two bitter failed actors, everything seemed like a play being reproduced, new dramas each day to navigate through. If Blaine knew any better, he might have hated it. Blaine didn't know any better, so he stayed quiet and ate his peas.
Alissa sat next to him, wincing a little when her sore body hit the chair. She couldn't sing like Blaine could, so her dance lessons were even more grueling. She looked around, "Where's Jesse?"
"Practicing," Father said shortly, "Upholding the family business." Father didn't mean the metal-working business he'd inherited from their grandfather. "He has a solo. When are you getting a solo, Blaine?"
"Freshmen audition tomorrow, Father," Blaine said.
"You've been practicing?" Father's blue eyes were even colder than mother's, his deep voice laced with disapproval, punishment for an offense Blaine hadn't committed.
"Three hours today," Blaine said, "Not counting school."
Mother tut tutted, "No, that won't do. You'll have to practice some more tonight before bed. Doctor's visit cut into nearly an hour at school. It's not going to scar," She told her husband.
"That's good," Father said without a trace of praise, "Wouldn't want you ruining your chances over a petty phase."
Blaine winced, staring down at his peas. He hated peas. "I'm gay." He said, his voice trembling with passion. Father looked up, an almost amused smile playing across his lips.
"You are a St. James, Blaine. That's the only sure thing you'll ever be. Now finish your dinner so you can go practice."
Blaine winced, shoving the memory out of his mind. He looked away from the letter on his desk, official looking type spelling "Blaine Humphrey St. James" across the front of the envelope. That wasn't him. He wouldn't let it be him.
Blaine shoved another cookie into his mouth, moaning as the taste made him forget, just for a moment, about that name, about his father, about everything.
There was no way he was letting Kurt take that away from him.
A/N: Just for reference:
Elaine St. James – Helena Bonham Carter
Brendan St. James –Julian Mcmahon
Alissa St. James – Lucy Hale
Jesse St. James – Jonathan Groff
Blaine Anderson – Darren Criss
Joseph Anderson – David Boreanaz