A/N: I'm sick, my stomach hurts, and I'm tired and beginning to stress about exams. And I'm on some new tablets for my insomnia, so once again, I don't really know what this even is. Or if I like it, so your reviews would be quite helpful. I'm also going to dedicate this chapter to Maddie because it's her birthday today and she's beautiful. Anyways, I hope you somewhat enjoy whatever this is, please don't be afraid to review!
~~~OOO~~~
"Kurt, honey, are you sure you have everything? Jacket, phone, camera…"
Kurt couldn't help but laugh.
"Yes Carole, for the seventeenth time this hour, I am sure I have everything."
Carole smiled, as Burt led the way to the airport, bypassing cars parked in a pretty array of colours that shouldn't have made Kurt smile, because it was all too crowded and that ticked him off. But he was just glad, in a way, that he was escaping this bustle of never ending life, at least for a little while, no matter how Australia turned out to be.
Carole and Burt locked eyes whilst Kurt was staring at the cars and hearing the planes roar over his head. And Carole sped up to lead the party, and telling Finn that no, he couldn't just 'blow this off to go see Rachel.' Burt held back to walk beside Kurt.
"You 'right Kurt?" He asked in his gruff voice.
And suddenly, a pang overtook Kurt; it held him rooted to the spot for a good half a minute or so. Who was he? Where had he gone? Where was the four year old that swung higher than high whilst holding his parents hands? Where was the eight year old who spent nights crying for the mother he'd never get back? Where was the eleven year old that kissed a boy and liked it? Where was the boy with dreams of flying, of breaking free of chains, of being a somebody, an anybody rather than a Lima loser? Where had the boy with the dreams and heart and soul and whispers gone? But Kurt wasn't supposed to think those things any more. He was supposed to not give a flying fuck about the fact that he couldn't read because his eyes were always bloodshot. Or that he probably had God knows what diseases. Or that he couldn't remember the name of his favourite drink anymore, because he was already hammered and stoned half to death by the time it came to drinking it. He wasn't supposed to care about the fact that he was now a Lima loser. Because he was no longer fourteen year old with a dream Kurt any more. No, he was so so different. So desperate to just have fun and forget the way his mother had said "I love you" or the way his dad had stopped looking at him. Or the boy that he thought he loved tell him he didn't love him because he wasn't a fag.
Kurt wasn't supposed to care about anything anymore. But then again, he never thought he would be in this situation. But hours away from gallivanting (but not really) to the other side of the world, to a house of tight arse rich bitches who would probably just throw him out the minute he fucked up. And he never thought he would be separated from his dad, who was the only thing that kept the horrible boyhood nightmares away at night. His dad, who he loved more than anything, despite everything.
Kurt had never hated himself as much as he did in that moment of realisation. Who the fuck had he become.
No! No! No! No! He banished all the thoughts away from the tip of his tongue to the blackest cavern of his mind, focusing his energy on perfecting 'you're sending me away? Good! I don't even care about anything anymore!' attitude.
Burt watched him as he stood glued to the footpath. There were a thousand things he wanted to say to the boy right at that moment. But he couldn't bring himself to say anything. Not right now. Because he was madder at his son than he had ever been, and he wished he wasn't. So he stuck with a, "Hurry up, Kurt, you're going to miss your plane."
"Oh yeah, right, sure, coming dad."
~~~OOO~~~
Kurt didn't do planes. He really truly didn't. They were the bane of his existence. He hated heights more than he hated clowns, and outer space, and being lonely, which was a lot of hate.
"Can I get you something to drink?"
Somehow, he didn't think they'd give him a Rum and Coke or a Vodka Soda anytime today, so he went with a Diet Coke.
The liquid felt refreshingly cool as it slid down his throat, revelling a tad of the tension that being 40 000 feet in the air brought Kurt.
He closed his eyes and let the music (but not really – it was all shouting, really) fill up the caverns of his body and make him think that he was safe, with feet planted firmly on the ground. And he let the music speak to him, and he thought, and he dreamt, and he forgot that he was so scared. And he wasn't just scared of the plane he was on, or the fact that there was turbulence rumbling his seat, or that he was God knows how long away from home. No, he was scared of, for the first time, the future. Of what Australia would do to him, and what the Anderson's would be like. What they'd let him do, how the people thought of him, but most importantly, if he'd change. Because, he really wanted to change. Not just for himself, because that would be selfish, but for his father, and the woman as good as his mother, and the boy-he-was-in-love-with-turned-brother, and the best friend's he'd lost in his weed induced haze.
So the music took his toll, and the coke nulled him to sleep (coke wasn't supposed to do that, but then again…)
~~~OOO~~~
Stepping off the plane had to be one of the best experiences in his life. If he had been seven years younger, and not in the position he was in, he would have gotten down on all fours and kissed the ground for being so still.
Kurt had slept through pretty much all of the trip over the Pacific, waking up sporadically to watch a movie now and then, or read the book he'd half-asleep-ily pushed into the side of his travel bag before he'd left whenever it was. It was a good book, even if he was too busy on loving the ground for remembering what it was called.
And then, he remembered where he was, and why he'd slept for the good part of fourteen hours in an uncomfortably shaped chair besides a man too big for his own seat, whose snores could rival the sound of an Apollo space shuttle. He looked around, his pretty eyes searching for some sense of recognition, a banner, or a sign, or even a "Kurt – "
A voice that sounded like home broke through the air, and he looked around, and caught sight of a woman who was doing well for her age, dolled up in good jeans and a nice jumper, not thick, not thin. Kurt approached her, and he noticed the kindness that seemed to dwell in her chocolaty eyes. She opened her arms wider than wide when he reached her, and pulled her in for a hug. God. Kurt missed hugs like this. Because this woman smelt like honey and soap and lemon and milk and baking and cleaning and sleep and television and everything that a home and a mother was supposed to smell like. "Welcome to Australia, Kurt." And then she embraced him again, and he thought he could hear sniffs that signalled tears, but he decided that was probably just all in his head, because they didn't even know each other.
"I'm Belinda by the way – Belinda Anderson. Your mother away from home."
God she sounded like home, like someone had wrapped up Christmas cookies and Sunday Roasts and Friday Night Dinners and movie marathons and clean showers and shampoo, into one, and poured it down her throat, until she sounded like a mother should.
"And this is my husband, Andrew; we're so so pleased that you made it safely." And there was a genuine smile, all for him. "Come on; let's go get your bags."
~~~OOO~~~
The house was beautiful. The drive from airport to beach to beautiful house was beautiful. The water looked beautiful. The playgrounds looked beautiful. Everywhere he looked, sea sun and sky were all beautiful. How was it even possible for such a perfect piece of beautiful to exist?
And then they pulled up in a large expansion of post whatever it was, pale yellow beauty. And his breath was taken away. "Welcome home Kurt."
And those words sounded beautiful, coming from Belinda's lips.
"Let's get you inside, introduce you to the rest of the gang."
And Kurt, really, truly, honest to God smiled, excited, scared yes, but excited for what the months may bring for him.
The threshold he stepped through took him to what felt like a whole other world. A house right on the beach, surrounded by the constant crashing of wave against shore, and the hoorahs of seagulls as they stole the sky. Of happiness of children, (Kurt wasn't fond of children though, but it added to the smile) and of feeling free. The house was designed in a way that was sort of supposed to be formal, but it wasn't really.
The black leather couches in the lounge room to where he was led, were matched to the beautiful ornate rug that reminded him of his mother's (bad thoughts, out, out!), and the photo frames that littered the room were of the same three beautiful smiling faces. Marking growth form naked baby in a bath to toothless curiosity in a picnic basket. Smiling first day of school photos, and sad last day of school photos. Awkward family photos that came with beers (YES!) in tow, and hilarious photos on some ride that looked scary as shit (he hated heights, remember). The photos couldn't help but make Kurt smile, and this room was beautiful. It felt homely, and warm, and like this family wouldn't hate him for the fact he was nearly killed or that he had a criminal record the size of a novel.
Andrew led the three children from the photos into the room, except they weren't children anymore. But Kurt knew that they weren't the sort of teenagers he'd come to be. Because that's why he was here, wasn't it? To be around 'good influences.' And God, these kids were pretty.
"Kurt, I'd like you to meet Amber – "She gestured to the clearly eldest girl, a pretty young woman with stars in her hazelnut eyes and a red bow in her darker-than-night hair. She had to be about the same height as Kurt, and the skirt she was wearing clearly made her look even older and much more beautiful than she already was.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, new baby brother." She sounded happy, good, sometimes, Kurt liked the happy people.
"And the twins – Emma and Blaine."
Kurt stopped dead when Blaine whipped his head up at the sound of his name. No matter how beautiful Emma was (really, she just looked like her sister), it was Blaine that took Kurt's breath away. (which was bad, oh so very bad). Blaine with his chocolate-you-could-drown-in-eyes. And his hair – curlier than Mr Squiggle. Blaine with his tight tight jeans (but they weren't really jeans, they cut off at his knees anyways, oh God, those knees.) Blaine with his perfect singlet tan that could only come from spending hours on the beach. Blaine with the pencil behind his ear (God, what that must taste like) and his perfect (cherry-red) lips. And his smell that smelt of –
But Kurt stopped himself.
"It's nice to meet you Kurt," and the beautiful boy with the beautiful voice and beautiful, more beautiful than the stars eyes, reached out to shake his hand.
And Kurt was just stuck. He didn't know what to say. He wasn't supposed to notice those things in boys anymore, was he? He promised himself in that moment to not, in any way, acknowledge Blaine in more than Andrew and Belinda bid him too. He couldn't bear to think those things about a boy when he was such a mess himself, especially one with a smile wider than the Grand Canyon and eyes brighter than the moon.
So he stuck with a "yeah, you too Blaine."
And that was that. And this house was beautiful. And the waves breaking sounded perfect, and the sun looked so nice and wonderful. And this place deserved exploring, but God, would he kill for a cigarette.
But Belinda seemed to notice the longing, and perhaps she picked apart his brain.
"Now Kurt," she began, "you know why you're here. So I'm going to lay down some ground rules for you, so that you can enjoy this little pocket of sun and surf for as long as you can."
Here we go, Kurt mentally prepared himself, daring to think how many of these rules he could break.
"Okay, so, first, absolutely no smoking. Not in this house, not at school, not even at the bins beside the supermarket, not on the beach, not at parties, not that there are any you'll be going to any time soon. There's no drinking, you may have a glass of wine on Saturday night dinners, and a beer perhaps at family barbeques, but that is it."
Kurt looked taken aback, and he couldn't help but notice Blaine watching him, and the smile marks that were etched on his face, somehow, Kurt believed Blaine had heard this one all before.
"No girls in your bedroom without the door open." Oh don't worry about that, Mrs Anderson. "And if you are going to be at any place but this house, you need to tell Andrew or myself. If neither of us are home, then Amber, Blaine or Emma need to be told."
That sounded somewhat reasonable, even thought Kurt knew he'd foget.
"And remember Kurt, you're here, because we want to help you, because your father and step-mother and step-brother want to help you. And you'll only get as much out of it, as you put in to it."
Belinda Anderson was wise.
"Now, you must be tired." Kurt hadn't realized how heavy his eyes were, funny. "Blaine, show Kurt to his room would you?"
Blaine nodded.
"Have a good sleep Kurt, and we'll see you when you wake up, give you the Royal Tour of Palm Beach." And she smiled that smile that made Kurt think of home, as Blaine helped him pick up his suitcases and bags and walk down the hall, lined with photos of grandmothers and grandfathers and aunts and uncles and cousins and family they'd forgotten they had. The furniture so beautifully fitted to the family that lived inside, and the beach that was always visible through the panes of glass scattered at perfect intervals.
Blaine opened a door, revealing to Kurt a space that was entirely his own. A double bed decked in a pretty, pale blue, the colour of a spring, was set in the middle. A closet – antiquely beautiful and ornate, for the clothes he'd bought. A bedside table with a lamp the same shade as the curtains that would hide the sun from his face in the morning – Kurt's favourite shade of lilac. And he'd never have thought that lilac and pale blue would become so pretty in a room together, but this was now Kurt's room, his home, and it made him smile.
Which made Blaine smile.
Which was nice, even though Kurt knew it would impossible to keep his promise and his eyes trained away from the chocolate when Blaine smiled like that. So he stuck with the awkward who-the-fuck-even-are-you-get-the-fuck-out-of-my-room attitude.
"yeah, I'm going to pass out now."
Blaine just laughed. God damn it. Kurt wanted to slap the beautiful features off that excuse for a teenage boy (but he wouldn't, 'cause that would be a crime he would never even want to commit.)
"Fair enough, anything I can get you." He had his eyes set straight onto Kurt's, not daring to look away. Maybe he was trying to show Kurt, that, 'I'm safe, you can trust me.' But kurt didn't want to. Cause boys with those looks in their eyes always ended up hurting you in the end.
"I'm okay, I think, thanks Blaine."
He shuffled his feet awkwardly, not sure how to get rid of the (significantly) shorter boy.
"I'll just go now." God – could Blaine red his mind too? Fuck, he was in trouble of the words played that easily onto his face.
"Thanks. Oh and Blaine – " Kurt tried to think about how to say this, if he even should say this.
But he went for it anyways.
But then Blaine just smiled a different smile, a waiting smile, a patient smile, a 'I got all the time in the world smile.' And Kurt didn't know what he'd been about to say.
"…well just. Um. Err, thanks."
And that was enough. And Blaine smiled again (fuck he had to stop that) and backed out of the room that was now Kurt's. Closing the door and leaving Kurt all alone to his head.
The ocean called him to sleep before the thoughts came out to play, and Kurt had never been so grateful.