Chapter Three
a friend, confidante, character witness, or whatever
Kurt sees the article. Of course Kurt sees the article.
Even if he somehow managed to miss the front page of the morning paper – bold and brazen font screaming out at him from the pale grey – and ignore the thirty minute segment shown on the morning newsreel, and magically deafenhimself so as not to hear it discussed on the radio on the way into school, there are nearly seventeen emails in his inbox by the time he reaches school, all from Rachel, all variations on the theme of Kurt, have you seen this? KURT! YOU NEED TO READ THIS AND THEN CALL ME. I WANT TO TALK TO YOU!
But Kurt does manage to glance at the morning paper, and the moment he sees it, he can feel it in his very bones.
This is not going to end well.
Rachel, in between huffing angrily and ranting at Kurt, agrees.
Their suspicions are confirmed three days later, when Henry Canterbury comes out and accuses the guy in the picture – eighteen year-old Blaine Anderson, a junior in high school – of sexually assaulting him.
When Rachel sees the new story, she's so far beyond livid, that Kurt momentarily forgets his own anger in fear of her.
Rachel's relationship with the gay community is something Kurt can't quite wrap his head around. She has her Two Gay Dads – and each time Rachel drops them into conversation, Kurt can swear he hears the capitalisation – so naturally she's pretty inescapably tied to the LGBT community, but it's like she moves between two extreme ends of the spectrum. At times, she's so very fiercely on their side and at others, she's callous and uncaring.
This is an example of the former.
Watching her vent is rather amusing for Kurt once the initial fear wears off. Rachel seems caught between being angry on Henry's behalf and being furious on Blaine's. It's as if she can't decide who to side with and that pisses her off just as much as anything else.
Kurt sighs internally.
Beyond the fact that he has some semblance of honour – which, admittedly, given his track record is somewhat surprising – there's another reason Kurt doesn't believe in outing people. It's not just that Kurt's been there and knows what it's like to be terrified of who he is. Outing people isn't just thoughtless and reprehensible; it's messy. It gets ugly, and it gets ugly fast.
When people are on the edge of losing their life as they know it, they will do anything and everything – say whatever they have to say – to try and stop it from slipping away from their fingers. That they're about to be forced out of the closet doesn't excuse their coming actions, but, to Kurt's mind, it explains it.
Kurt doesn't think for one second that Henry Canterbury – aged twenty-one, with an entire head of height and nearly twenty pounds of weight on the other guy – was sexually assaulted outside a gay bar in Columbus. He thinks that Henry's scared and doing all he can to ram the closet door shut again, after having it so publically thrown open.
Kurt's eyes fall yet again on the infamous photographs.
Right now, being Blaine Anderson must be anything but easy.
Wes:
Blaine, where are you?
[2 MISSED CALLS: WES, 9.36am; WES, 9.48am]
Wes:
Blaine, seriously, WHERE ARE YOU?
[3 MISSED CALLS: DAVID, 9.49am; DAVID, 9.53am; NICK, 10.03am]
Wes:
Call me when you get this. I'm worried.
Penelope Pilkington is, as Nick stated, a very good lawyer. She's also a very expensive lawyer, but Blaine's parents – thankfully – don't fight Blaine's decision to hire her.
"I'll be honest with you Blaine," she tells him one day, straightening out her skirt-suit primly. "You've got pretty good chances at brushing this charge off. In all honesty, the only reason things are even getting this far is because of who the supposed-victim's father is."
"That's good, right?" Blaine asks, fiddling with the edge of the file Penelope handed him.
Penelope smiles. "Yeah, it's good," she assures him. "That's not everything, though. If, and when, this gets to trial, Blaine, it's going to get ugly. There's no physical evidence of assault and those pictures in the paper don't prove shit, so their only chance at making this stick is going to be to tear you apart on the stand. They know it, we know it – heck, the jury knows it. At the end of the day, it's going to boil down to which one of you two boys they think is most likely to tell the truth."
"That's … pretty shitty," Blaine states glumly, sinking his head into his hands.
"That's jury trials," Penelope shrugs. "I'm good at my job, though, and I'm going to win this, so, first off, I need you to follow my instructions to the letter."
Blaine sighs. "Okay," he says, because, honestly? What else can he do?
Wesley Montgomery
(10:15)
Blaine, I'm seriously worried. You aren't picking up your phone, and your home phone's still un-plugged, so I'm just going to spam every single account of yours I have until I get a reply.
(10:26)
Call me if you get this.
Blaine keeps Penelope's instructions in his wallet, under the title of 'Penelope Pilkington's Guide to NOT Getting Convicted of Sexual Assault'.
Rule one, as it turns out, is something that Blaine's more than happy to commit to. It's simply a no-comment policy. He's not supposed to speak to anyone about the case, or the scandal – not the press, not Wes, not David, Nick, or Jeff, not his mother and not his father – and given that Blaine doesn't like talking about it, that's fine by him.
Rule two is also something Blaine's fine with.
Stay out of trouble. It's mostly synonymous with don't do anything stupid and lately, Blaine's gotten really good at that too.
The sad fact of the matter is that Blaine simply doesn't have time for trouble anymore. He's in and out of depositions, running through testimony with his lawyer, dodging cameras and questions alike; it's not like he ever expected this to be easy. Gradually – and by gradually, Blaine means at a fucking glacial pace – Blaine's getting used to seeing his face on the news, and getting used to the fact that those pictures of him are going to haunt him for the rest of his life.
Keeping busy also has another advantage. It keeps his mind occupied, so it doesn't stray – doesn't wander – and he doesn't have to think about the future. He just concentrates on each day as it comes, making sure he survives without either punching someone or imploding.
Because, quite frankly thinking of the future is both nerve-wracking and disheartening.
Rule three is somewhat more difficult than its compatriots.
Never show any weakness.
It's a survival thing. Blaine gets it.
It just sucks, okay?
He knows why Henry came out and said everything. He gets that too. He's been in the closet before. He gets what it's like.
It's just…
Henry's move was desperate. A last ditch attempt to save his own skin.
And in doing so, Henry Canterbury has single-handedly torn Blaine's life to shreds.
And that's just fucking selfish.
It's really the small things that get Blaine.
How, suddenly it's no big deal to suddenly receive nearly fifty pieces of hate mail in the post one morning. Or how his Facebook timeline is full of so many ugly comments that Blaine's just given up on using the site altogether. Or how his Twitter following is now at some stupid number, because he's the shiny new toy for the media to play with.
How he can't go for coffee anymore, because the baristas at his favourite coffee shop – people who have known him for nearly three years – refuse to serve people like him.
Showing no weakness sounds like a good idea, but when every little thing wears away at him just a little bit more, it's nigh impossible.
And then, when he's at his lowest point, Blaine meets Kurt.
It involves him breaking all three of Penelope's rules and it's quite possibly the best thing to happen to him in a long time.
Unknown Number:
Did you block my number, Blaine? Seriously? What are you? Five fucking years old? God, Blaine, it was a joke. What the fuck happened to your sense of humour!?
I just. Please, just call me back. I can explain.
After the Warblers barely scrape past sectionals with a tie with another show choir – the New Directions from William McKinley High in Lima – Trent corners him in the library and drops a none-too-subtle hint that Blaine's membership might be back on the table if he can dish the dirt on the group.
It's around about then that rule two goes out the window.
Lima is about a two hour drive away, and McKinley finishes up a whole hour before Dalton – one of the unfortunate downsides of private school – but, fuck it, Blaine's getting expelled anyway, so he digs through his desk draw and pulls out his forged late excuse slips, scribbling in the day's date. He chucks on some of the casual clothes he has hanging in his closet, grabs his keys and makes the drive down to Lima, all the while praying that public school kids are as illiterate as Dalton leads its students to believe and don't actually read the newspaper.
As it turns out, Blaine is a crap spy.
The New Directions call him out almost the first moment they spot him loitering in the doorway of the auditorium. A tiny girl, who just seconds ago was belting out a power ballad, stops halfway through her solo to scream at him. The rest of the members just sort of stare at him – well, not all of them, as a dark-haired girl in a cheerleading outfit take the time to make a vaguely insulting quip about his height – until, out of the crowd, a dark bruise marring his otherwise perfect complexion, steps Kurt.
Kurt's hot. He's all high-cheekbones and perfectly-styled, chestnut hair – tight jeans and killer legs – and there's a glinting sharpness to his eyes which simply fascinates Blaine.
Of course, he doesn't know Kurt's name right then, but Kurt knows his, as is proven when he states dryly, "Blaine Anderson. Now this is a surprise."
Blaine feels his mouth go dry.
"Kurt," the tiny girl starts, whirling around to face the other boy. "I really don't think—"
"Rachel," Kurt says flatly, but his voice comes out forceful, like it's a direct challenge and they both know it. "I'll handle this."
Their eyes meet and remain on each other for a few seconds. Blaine can see the almost imperceptible changes in facial expressions between the two of them and knows that they're having a hurried and silent argument.
Kurt wins.
"Fine," Rachel relents, drawing her eyes away from Kurt. "But remember Jesse."
"As if I could forget." Kurt rolls his eyes good-naturedly – Blaine thinks it's good-naturedly – and takes hold of Blaine's arm, before dragging him out of the auditorium. Blaine lets himself be tugged away, still somewhat dazed.
Random Twitter User (RTWU1)
BlaineWarbler People like you make me sick.
Random Twitter User 2 (RTWU2)
BlaineWarbler Just go kill yourself. Do us all a favour.
Random Twitter User 3 (RTWU3)
BlaineWarbler You deserve to burn in hell.
Kurt's idea of handling things turns out to be buying him a cup of crappy cafeteria decaf and sitting him down on the bleachers for a chat.
"If it helps," Kurt says softly from above his coffee, "Rachel and I are probably the only members of the New Directions who actually recognised you."
"That—" Blaine pauses, unsure. "That actually does help. Thanks."
Kurt shrugs. "We're not exactly the type to watch the news." He pauses. "Well, maybe Quinn too," he concedes, "but she's kind of dealing with some shit right now, so." He shrugs again.
They fall into an uncomfortable silence, and Blaine takes the time to raise his coffee cup to his mouth and take a tentative sip. God, this stuff is vile.
"So," Blaine says awkwardly, placing the coffee cup down on the bleachers beside him. "Are you going to beat me up for spying, or..?" he trails off when Kurt starts laughing.
"I'm not going to beat you up, God," Kurt says, chuckles still reverberating through his entire torso. "It's the black-eye, isn't it? Noah said it made me look like a badass." He shakes his head, smiling at Blaine.
He's kind of cute when he smiles.
The fact that Kurt stops laughing and stares at Blaine tells him that he accidentally said that last bit out loud.
"Thank you," Kurt says, voice small. "No one's really said that about me before."
Blaine shrugs, deliberately not meeting Kurt's eyes. "They should."
Kurt shrugs, then leans back against the cold metal of the bleachers. "So," he starts, making the one word seem like a statement all on its own.
"So," Blaine repeats.
"What brings you to our neck of the woods, Blaine?" Kurt asks, eyes staring up at the overcast sky. "I'm guessing it wasn't really about spying on our show choir, and I can't imagine it was you wanting to scout out the school, because honestly? McKinley is many things, but a lovely, accepting high school is not one of them."
"What makes you think I wasn't there to spy?" Blaine questions.
Kurt gives him a look. "If you were," he states, "then you're really going to have to up your game. As far as attempts at show choir espionage go, this doesn't even rate a two on the threat scale."
"Out of ten?" Blaine asks, cradling his coffee cup.
Kurt snorts. "Out of a hundred," he corrects. He pauses, his entire face softening. "So, that leads me to believe that this maybe has less to do with spying and more to do with…" Kurt trails off and Blaine recognises that he's looking for a polite way to reference the clusterfuck that is his life right now. "…Everything else," Kurt completes eventually.
It's the most tactful way Blaine's heard to refer to it, beating Jeff's The Consequences of Blaine's Stupidity by a wide margin.
Everything else.
Blaine kind of likes that.
"Huh," is what Blaine eventually settles on saying. "I really am a terrible spy."
Kurt makes a face like hey, what can you do, and smiles at Blaine. "It was kind of adorable," he comments.
They lapse once more into a tense silence and Kurt turns his eyes to the sky. There's a pensive quality to Kurt's gaze, like he can see the answers to every question he has up there in the overcast heavens. Blaine follows Kurt's direction of sight, right up to the dreary cloud cover, and the faint streaks of sunlight pushing through.
"I believed you, you know," Kurt admits quietly, smoothly slicing through the silence.
Blaine tears his eyes away from the sky to look straight at Kurt as he speaks.
"You know," Kurt goes on. "That you're innocent."
"Why?"
He doesn't mean for it to come out the way it does – coarse and uncaring – but the concern is a real one. People that Blaine's known for years have turned their backs on him without so much as a second thought. So, why the hell does a complete stranger have more faith in him than his parents?
It doesn't make sense. It doesn't seem fair.
Kurt meets Blaine's gaze and there. There's the sharpness Blaine saw earlier – the piercing, intelligent quality that holds so much promise, so much thought, that Blaine's desperate to figure out the mind behind it.
Kurt's the one who looks away.
"It just didn't make much sense, really, from a pragmatic point of view," Kurt says. "I mean, here we have this hunk of a guy and I'm supposed to believe that he – all one hundred and seventy pounds of him – couldn't have fended off the sloppy advances of a no-doubt sloshed to high hell midget eighteen year old?"
As soon as the words are out of Kurt's mouth, he freezes, like oh shit, that was actually kind of offensive. Blaine wants to laugh at it.
So he does.
"I resent that," he breathes between laughs, feeling so fucking light. "I am a perfectly average height for my age."
Kurt raises his eyebrows, all, who the hell are you trying to kid?
"For what? A hobbit?" he snarks lightly.
Blaine snorts. "You think I haven't heard that one before?" he asks. "It's not like I had a growth spurt and then stopped growing. I've been short my entire life." He stops suddenly and sighs almost wistfully. "I kind of miss it."
Kurt stares at him strangely. "I hate to break this to you, Blaine, but you're still short."
Blaine stops short. He doesn't know how to vocalise this, but back when he was just short, things were easier. Now, he's gay, and a predator, and a liar, and a freak. Midget just seems … kinder, almost.
He struggles through his explanation and watches as, with each word, Kurt's brows knit closer and closer together.
"You know," Kurt says when he's done, "the French have a proverb. C'est dans le besoin qu'on reconnait ses vrais amis. It means that you only really find out who your real friends are when you're going through shit – and that's not a literal translation, so don't use it in an essay or whatever – but I'm guessing right now, you have a pretty clear idea of who you can count on in a crisis and who's going to leave you high and dry."
Blaine nods minutely.
Kurt smiles sadly. "Yeah," he says. "Me too." His eyes linger on Blaine's face for a few more moments, the eye-contact between them oddly intimate, before he withdraws and takes a sip of his coffee. Immediately, his face contorts into something resembling repulsion.
"God, this stuff is awful," he exclaims, upending his cup and tipping his cup over the bleachers. "And I really should get back to rehearsals."
Kurt stands, and then pauses, and then picks up his empty coffee cup, rooting in his pockets for a pen. He scrawls his number on the polystyrene – his handwriting gloriously elegant – and hands the empty cup to Blaine.
Blaine accepts it dumbly.
"Speaking from experience," Kurt says softly, "it never hurts to have a few more of those elusive true friends. Things are going to get worse before they get better, Blaine. Even I can see that. Just don't… Don't be afraid to ask for help. Even if you ask me. And, God, I know this must be pretty much the last thing you want to hear from some complete stranger, but I'm there, okay. If you need me. As a friend, a confidante, a character witness, or whatever. I'm there."
Blaine doesn't know what to say, so he doesn't say anything.
Kurt looks at him, sad eyes crinkling around the edges, before he shakes his head and slides away.
Blaine can't help but feel like he should be chasing after him.
Blaine:
Sorry, Wes. I'm safe. Just didn't feel like school today.
Wes:
Text a guy, next time, okay? I was freaking out.
Blaine:
No offence, Wes, but you're pretty much always freaking out about something.
Wes:
No jokes, Blaine. Call me next time. I had no idea where you were.
Blaine:
OK. Night, Wes. See you tomorrow.
Wes:
Goodnight, Blaine.
It's two days later when Blaine finally uses that number. He's already got it saved on his phone under Friend, Confidante, Character Witness, Or Whatever and he's been debating whether or not to send anything its way. Kurt seems nice enough, but this could all just be a front. He knows how much the press have been clamouring for some sort of end to the radio silence he's been giving them, but…
But Blaine could really, really use a friend, confidante, character witness, or whatever right now.
He keeps it simple.
Blaine:
They're expelling me from school. –Blaine
And goodbye, rule one. In fact, goodbye rule three too. Two for one.
Kurt's reply comes instantly.
Friend, Confidante, Character Witness, Or Whatever:
Blaine? What? Why? –Kurt
Blaine smiles more than just a tiny bit at the fact that Kurt properly capitalises his texts too.
Blaine:
Dalton – that's my school, BTW – has a pretty strict honour code. Apparently having racy photos published in the papers violates it. Who woulda figured?
Friend, Confidante, Character Witness, Or Whatever:
That… sucks, actually.
Blaine:
Tell me something I don't know. It's such utter shit as well, because I know for a fact that one of the seniors got done for public sex with his girlfriend over the summer and he's still enjoying all the privileges associated with Dalton's esteemed student body.
Friend, Confidante, Character Witness, Or Whatever:
That really, really sucks. I would tell you to come to McKinley, but, well, you're currently speaking to the only thing that place has going for it.
Blaine:
Trust me, if I thought it was an option, I would go for it too.
Friend, Confidante, Character Witness, Or Whatever:
Wait a second. Dalton? As in the Dalton Academy Warblers? So you WERE a spy. You dirty dog! :P
Blaine:
Ah. Yes. Well, if it's any consolation, the Warblers and I aren't exactly on speaking terms right now. They kicked me off the day after I got arrested.
Friend, Confidante, Character Witness, Or Whatever:
Does that make you a rogue agent, then? You'll have to forgive my lack of spy-savvy. I'm more of a fashion guy.
Blaine:
Really? You read Vogue? If so, what did you think of the Marion Cotillard cover?
Friend, Confidante, Character Witness, Or Whatever:
Of course I read Vogue, Blaine. I'm a self-respecting, fashion-obsessed gay man, after all. And that Marion Cotillard cover – genius. Pure genius.
Blaine:
It's like you read my mind. Best cover of 2010. Seriously.
Friend, Confidante, Character Witness, Or Whatever:
Really? Your use of no other punctuation marks other than full-stops says otherwise.
Blaine:
Fine. It's like you read my mind! Best cover of 2010! Seriously! :DDDDDD
Are you happy? I seem like a sorority girl or something now.
Friend, Confidante, Character Witness, Or Whatever:
I happen to think you'd make a charming sorority girl. And here, this is where, if I were truly lecherous, I'd make a comment about wet t-shirt contests.
Blaine:
I hate you.
Friend, Confidante, Character Witness, Or Whatever:
Now Blaine, don't go about making rash judgements. I could be your soul mate for all you know.
Blaine:
Unlikely, but I'll keep you posted on that.
Friend, Confidante, Character Witness, Or Whatever:
And to think I'd gotten my hopes up. However will I cope?
Seriously, though, my friends were pissed enough that I let you go without some kind of retribution for spying. I do not need the drama associated with dating a Dalton kid as well.
Blaine:
There's also my impending sexual assault charges.
Friend, Confidante, Character Witness, Or Whatever:
That too, but to be honest, I'm more worried about Rachel's reaction.
Blaine:
That's either a shocking display of your faith in me, or a shocking display of your lack of faith in your friend.
Friend, Confidante, Character Witness, Or Whatever:
Oh, Blaine. Your naivety is adorable. Unfortunately, the ND have bad experiences with show choir espionage.
Blaine:
Now I'm curious.
Friend, Confidante, Character Witness, Or Whatever:
In that case, I suppose I can fill you in. Are you ready for a tale of seduction, forbidden love and eggs?
Blaine:
If that isn't a ringing endorsement, I don't know what is.
Kurt tells the story of a steady stream of texts, and Blaine takes great pleasure in reading about someone else's drama-filled life. Kurt's depiction of the tale isn't without a great deal of snark, not all of it PC, but all of it enough to break through the chronic weariness that has been wearing Blaine down recently and make him smile.
His favourite line has to be Kurt's brilliant description of this Jesse guy's hair. We're talking L'Oréal, beautiful conditioner commercial locks here, Blaine. I spent half of our dance rehearsals waiting for him to shake it out and tell me I was worth it.
It's then that it hits Blaine – he's missed this. He's missed the casual banter he had taken for granted with his friends. He's missed being able to say whatever he likes over text without worrying about it being dissected and used against him.
It's easy with Kurt. Easy to forget.
Blaine's not entirely sure that's a good thing.
A Friend:
Just remember, Blaine: I did not have sexual relations with that (wo)man. –Kurt