deleted fic snippet
This was originally going to be a post about how I'm sorry I suck and how my life is crazy right now, but if I'm honest, no one needs to be subjected to that. I'm just throwing up a random deleted scene that I absolutely could not work into my fic no matter how hard I tried. My first attempt at writing from a child's perspective. /o\
One of Max’s earliest memories is of a late night in February when he’d been four years old, and he’d been awakened by the sound of loud, excited voices emanating from the living room. He’d padded sleepily out into the small hallway, dark curls matted and sleep-rumpled, clad in his favorite pair of Harry Potter pajamas.
Dad K. had crossed in front of the hallway, talking distractedly over his shoulder. “Blaine, that box your parents sent us this Christmas. Where is it?”
Max had heard voices and the sound of faint, bubbling laughter and - maybe someone crying? That had seemed very silly. You couldn’t be laughing and crying at the same time, could you?
“No, god, not the box they sent with the tablecloth and the snowflake doilies, I re-gifted that ages ago. I meant the one with the wine bottles and the - oh, Max. What are you doing up, sweetheart? Were we being too loud?”
Max had nodded, feeling confused and a little grumpy. Dad K. had knelt down in front of him, lovingly brushing the hair back from his eyes.
“What’s happening, Dad?”
His dad’s eyes had looked a little wet. “Something good, sweetheart. Something very good and we’re having a little party. Do you want to come out for a minute? Say hello to Aunt Rachel and Uncle Finn and Miss Stacey and Miss Petra and - ”
“Yeah,” Max had said, suddenly feeling more awake.
“Okay,” he’d whispered, lifting Max up in his arms.
“Dad, I can walk,” he’d informed him, very affronted.
“I know you can,” he’d said, continuing to carry him as they reached the living room.
Max had seen Uncle Finn first, who’d held out his arms instantly. “Hey, big guy! Come here!”
“Dad, put me down, put me down,” Max had said, wiggling and kicking his feet. His dad had set him down and Max had zoomed into Uncle Finn’s arms while Aunt Rachel had come over and made a fuss about how big he was getting.
Aunt Rachel had put her hands over the slight swell in her stomach. “Maxie, sweetie, would you like to say hi to your cousin?”
Max had recently been informed of this cousin development, and he hadn’t quite decided how he felt about it. On the other hand, he had very firm opinions about being called Maxie.
“She’s growing in Aunt Rachel’s tummy, remember?”
Max had stared suspiciously at Aunt Rachel’s stomach and then back up at Uncle Finn. That didn’t make any sense at all, but Max had learned that sometimes it was just easier to let grown-ups keep believing ridiculous things. He’d reached up and patted Aunt Rachel’s stomach. “Hello, baby,” he’d said indulgently, watching Aunt Rachel’s face get pinker and happier.
Dad B. had come into the living room just as Max had started wrestling with Uncle Finn. He'd felt very sorry for him because Max had been super strong and poor Uncle Finn was always losing.
“Kurt, I found the wine bottles but I cannot for the life of me find the corkscrew. When was the last time we used it?”
“God, I don’t even know. New Year's, maybe?”
“Dude, it’s okay,” Uncle Finn had said. “We don’t care.”
“I can’t even have any,” Aunt Rachel had pointed out.
Miss Stacey had been on the couch with Miss Petra. Not only had they been laughing and crying, but they’d been laughing and crying and kissing - grown-ups were just so strange.
“Just sit down, Blaine,” Miss Stacey had said. “Sit down and celebrate with us.”
Feeling exceptionally pleased with himself for knowing the word celebrate, Max had looked around the room and said, “What are we celebrating?”
Dad B. had scooped Max up and sat him on his lap, too absorbed with what had been on the TV to answer his son’s question. And there hadn’t even been anything good on. It was just a man in a suit, talking into a bunch of microphones and saying: “February 22nd, 2027. Remember this day, my fellow Americans. This day will go down in the history books as the day when full marriage equality was granted to all citizens of our country. This day will be remembered by us, and by our children, and by our children’s children, as the day when we - ”
“Dad,” he’d whined. “Please can we watch something else?”
In answer, he’d kissed Max quickly on the cheek and ruffled his hair. “Sorry, Max,” he’d said, and his voice had sounded very funny - like he’d had a cold or something. “We’ll just be a little longer, I promise.”
One of Max’s earliest memories is of a late night in February when he’d been four years old, and he’d been awakened by the sound of loud, excited voices emanating from the living room. He’d padded sleepily out into the small hallway, dark curls matted and sleep-rumpled, clad in his favorite pair of Harry Potter pajamas.
Dad K. had crossed in front of the hallway, talking distractedly over his shoulder. “Blaine, that box your parents sent us this Christmas. Where is it?”
Max had heard voices and the sound of faint, bubbling laughter and - maybe someone crying? That had seemed very silly. You couldn’t be laughing and crying at the same time, could you?
“No, god, not the box they sent with the tablecloth and the snowflake doilies, I re-gifted that ages ago. I meant the one with the wine bottles and the - oh, Max. What are you doing up, sweetheart? Were we being too loud?”
Max had nodded, feeling confused and a little grumpy. Dad K. had knelt down in front of him, lovingly brushing the hair back from his eyes.
“What’s happening, Dad?”
His dad’s eyes had looked a little wet. “Something good, sweetheart. Something very good and we’re having a little party. Do you want to come out for a minute? Say hello to Aunt Rachel and Uncle Finn and Miss Stacey and Miss Petra and - ”
“Yeah,” Max had said, suddenly feeling more awake.
“Okay,” he’d whispered, lifting Max up in his arms.
“Dad, I can walk,” he’d informed him, very affronted.
“I know you can,” he’d said, continuing to carry him as they reached the living room.
Max had seen Uncle Finn first, who’d held out his arms instantly. “Hey, big guy! Come here!”
“Dad, put me down, put me down,” Max had said, wiggling and kicking his feet. His dad had set him down and Max had zoomed into Uncle Finn’s arms while Aunt Rachel had come over and made a fuss about how big he was getting.
Aunt Rachel had put her hands over the slight swell in her stomach. “Maxie, sweetie, would you like to say hi to your cousin?”
Max had recently been informed of this cousin development, and he hadn’t quite decided how he felt about it. On the other hand, he had very firm opinions about being called Maxie.
“She’s growing in Aunt Rachel’s tummy, remember?”
Max had stared suspiciously at Aunt Rachel’s stomach and then back up at Uncle Finn. That didn’t make any sense at all, but Max had learned that sometimes it was just easier to let grown-ups keep believing ridiculous things. He’d reached up and patted Aunt Rachel’s stomach. “Hello, baby,” he’d said indulgently, watching Aunt Rachel’s face get pinker and happier.
Dad B. had come into the living room just as Max had started wrestling with Uncle Finn. He'd felt very sorry for him because Max had been super strong and poor Uncle Finn was always losing.
“Kurt, I found the wine bottles but I cannot for the life of me find the corkscrew. When was the last time we used it?”
“God, I don’t even know. New Year's, maybe?”
“Dude, it’s okay,” Uncle Finn had said. “We don’t care.”
“I can’t even have any,” Aunt Rachel had pointed out.
Miss Stacey had been on the couch with Miss Petra. Not only had they been laughing and crying, but they’d been laughing and crying and kissing - grown-ups were just so strange.
“Just sit down, Blaine,” Miss Stacey had said. “Sit down and celebrate with us.”
Feeling exceptionally pleased with himself for knowing the word celebrate, Max had looked around the room and said, “What are we celebrating?”
Dad B. had scooped Max up and sat him on his lap, too absorbed with what had been on the TV to answer his son’s question. And there hadn’t even been anything good on. It was just a man in a suit, talking into a bunch of microphones and saying: “February 22nd, 2027. Remember this day, my fellow Americans. This day will go down in the history books as the day when full marriage equality was granted to all citizens of our country. This day will be remembered by us, and by our children, and by our children’s children, as the day when we - ”
“Dad,” he’d whined. “Please can we watch something else?”
In answer, he’d kissed Max quickly on the cheek and ruffled his hair. “Sorry, Max,” he’d said, and his voice had sounded very funny - like he’d had a cold or something. “We’ll just be a little longer, I promise.”