Flicker from View (11/25)
Summary: There have been stories of the Anderson house for as long as Kurt Hummel can remember: stories about music playing from the second story, and whispers of a crying boy. So when his Glee Club decides to check it out as a pre-Halloween trip, he doesn't expect anything more than some dusty floorboards and a creaky staircase. What he finds instead, will change his life.
Rating: Mostly PG-13, with some R stuff for triggers.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Except the order of the words.
A/N: I am so sorry! It was midterm week and work was crazy, and my beta could tell you about how difficult this week was for me, but won't. I hope this chapter was what you were looking for.
A/N: Also, mine and KK's tumblr has been changed. We are now angstoholic.tumblr.com. It's more fitting, I think.
Song is "Message for Michael" by Dionne Warnick. GREAT SONG from the 60's.
Chapter Eleven
The house was so empty, so very, very empty. It was as if all the life had been sucked out of it, a vacuum without being or breath.
Blaine was on the front steps - young and childlike, maybe ten years old. He sat on the top step, knees drawn up to his thin chest and dark curls flopping over his forehead. His eyes stayed locked on Kurt's figure, completely blank of emotion.
Kurt, feeling the absence of life, shivered at the sight. Still, he stepped over until he reached the bottom step. He looked down at Blaine, who had only tilted his head enough to maintain eye contact.
It was eerily creepy.
Kurt cleared his throat and said, "Blaine?"
And Blaine's smile, slow and slippery, did not reach his eyes at all; the result was that of a mannequin. "Who's Blaine?"
His voice was not that of a child's, but the 1987 Blaine. Kurt felt a shudder wash through him at the sound. "Blaine, please," he whispered. "I know you."
Now, the sliding head tilt. "Do you? Or do you know a ghost of Blaine?"
Kurt actually took a step back, and closed his hands over the opposite elbows. "Blaine," he breathed. "I know Blaine."
That empty smile returned. "But who's Blaine?"
A whimper escaped Kurt's mouth and he shook his head in distress. "Please don't do this."
Blaine straightened and released his knees in order to spread his arms out. "Do what, Kurt? This is your dream."
Kurt gasped out a wet cry of pain and dropped his head into his hands. There was a shuddering cry from his lungs and then, quietly, he opened his eyes.
Here was his basement bedroom, not the terribly haunted Anderson house. His bedroom, which would soon belong to someone else; because they were moving; because his dad and Carol were getting married.
The last five days had turned Kurt's world around. Between scaring Blaine off - and where did that boy go? - and the huge announcement of his family doubling, he didn't know what to feel, or if he should feel anything at all. So, he did his best to focus on the silver linings until they were so bright he couldn't see any of the clouds surrounding it.
The days had been filled with planning for the wedding - Carol had been kind enough to ask Kurt to organize everything. While it was proving to be a lot of work, it was a welcome load. There was no time to think of anything else; Carol and Burt wanted to be wed by the end of the month.
But the nights! The nights were haunted by Blaine: his sadness, his loneliness, and his distance from the world. And, just like he was in real life, he was always just out of Kurt's reach, so close and yet so far.
There was no rest to be found anywhere.
*
The Anderson house. Strange how Kurt could not seem to call it by its kinder name: Blaine's house. But maybe that was because it didn't come across as a house, but as a prison. That was, if Blaine couldn't leave the house like Kurt suspected.
Kurt wandered the first floor of the house, flashlight shining and eyes searching. Like it had been the last time he was here - four days ago - it was empty and eerily silent. No life was to be found in this place.
The chill of the house was settling into Kurt's bones and making his shake, the light wavering. He swallowed, hard and desperate. There was nothing in this house without a Blaine present.
"Blaine?" he called; he heard his voice echo back to him. "Are you here?"
No answer. In all honesty, Kurt wasn't expecting one. He wouldn't have trusted himself again if he were Blaine.
"I wonder if you ever know I'm here," he whispered. Maybe he could keep the thoughts to himself, but then he would be all alone in a silent house. At last the noise kept the fear away.
"Are you watching me right now?" Kurt sighed and tugged at the hem of his shirt. "Do you like my outfit today? I, I got it on sale. Black Friday is the day of heroes." He paused for a moment, straightening in surprised thought. "Was there a Black Friday in your time?"
Did it even matter?
Kurt sighed and lowered his arm, letting the beam of the flashlight shine on the ground. He stared at the cracks of the floorboards, the stains of the years, and the obvious ring from where the rug had been for years undisturbed. He thought about what Mrs. Anderson would think of the state of her house, how horrified she would be. There was something that told him that she would have kept a pristine household. Maybe it was in the way Blaine held himself, he wasn't sure.
It didn't matter anymore, though.
Slowly, Kurt lowered himself into the couch, and look down at his lap. He took in another deep breath, and then released it, hoping that the longing would leave him with it.
It didn't.
*
"Kurt!"
Kurt paused in the middle of the hallway, and sighed to himself. With all the disruption of the last week, his fuse had been getting shorter and shorter. He had to actually push down the automatic snappy, icy responses that came to mind, and paint a patience look on his face with every person that crossed his path. Even the ones he was quite fond of.
Rachel Berry was not one he was quite fond of.
He pressed his lips together, tried to remind himself that he, like Rachel, was an imperfect being, then turned on his heel. "Rachel Berry," he greeted, resting his weight on one hip. "What menial task do you require from me today?"
Okay, so maybe he was a little bit nastier than usual.
She stalked up to him, hair flouncing around her shoulders. "I need to discuss choreography for the wedding," she announced, stopped mere inches from him. "As the captain of the New Directions, it's my duty that every performance we do is up to my excellent and admittedly high standard."
Kurt raised an eyebrow. "I see. Well, Rachel, considering how you have song suggestions for me to evaluate, I'm not sure what you were hoping I would say-"
"Finn and I have already decided on a song," Rachel interrupted, raising her chin slightly. It shall be a montage of couples, set to Bruno Mars' "Marry You"."
Kurt felt a sharp sting of annoyance - once again, he would be left out. Him - the third wheel - and the rest of them, happily singing away. And this was his dad's wedding, his present to thank his dad for everything he'd ever done for Kurt (like love him), and they were going to isolate him in this way too.
He closed his eyes for a moment, reminded himself that Rachel was not at fault for everything wrong in his life at this moment, then reopened them. "Am I getting a say in this?" he asked archly. "Since it is my dad's wedding."
She blinked, then widened her eyes as if she was surprised. "I told you, Finn and I were decided. It is his mom's wedding, after all."
Damn her. She was right. And it was the bride's day over the groom's. Kurt narrowed his eyes at her, then said, "Then I assume I have a solo? Or duet, at least?"
She sighed, as if she was burdened by such a foolish person. "Kurt. You are not in a relationship at the moment. We cannot let a love song be sung by a lonely, wretched individual. This is a event of happiness, and love." She looked at him with those earnest brown eyes of her, and finished with, "You don't want to ruin the wedding, do you?"
Kurt inhaled sharply and said, "My singing would not ruin the-"
And then there was a freezing wave of icy cold water, purple and staining and terrible. Kurt gasped, heard Rachel's similar cry, and then the laughter of Neanderthals.
Kurt shuddered in a cold, difficult breath, and felt a cold clump of ice drip off his hair and onto his cheek.
"Happy Tuesday, Gleeks!" the boys sang in chorus; there was a slap - sharing a high five, most likely - and then the world slowly tilted back into reality again, filled with footsteps and soft chatter.
Slowly, Kurt opened his eyes, feeling ice dripping off his eyelashes. Rachel Berry shivered before him, covered in green ice.
And suddenly, Kurt was so very tired of it. No wonder Blaine had killed himself.
"Whatever, Rachel," he said softly. Rachel's eyes snapped open and they locked on his face. He shrugged, feeling slushy slip and slide over his shirt, dripping onto the floor. "Do... whatever your experience says is best."
And then he turned and started for the girl's washroom on the other side of school.
*
"What do you think, Blaine? Purple or yellow?"
Kurt peered at the magazine, trying to judge the colours in the dim candlelight. He had told his dad he was going out to do some studying while Finn and Carole stayed over. Instead, he had driven over to the Anderson house and set up camp.
Now he was judging colours. He had already decided on flowers and fabric. This was one of the final choices before he could send it all away and get the professionals to set everything up. Everything was going according to schedule; he was ahead of the schedule, actually.
"I do like the purple; it's a very, you know, noble... But I don't think it's quite right for dad or Carole... It's almost too nice."
He sighed and propped his chin up on his fist, rubbing the magazine page between his fingers. "I wish you could meet them," he said softly. "You'd love them. And... I know they'd love you. After all, Carol practically had a crush on you back in high school.
"Do you remember them? Or, were you even aware of their existence? I wonder if they would have helped you, if you guys had been friends..."
He lifted his head, and stared at the broken clock over the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room. He drummed a pencil against the surface of the table, and thought about Blaine sitting here doing homework throughout his life: as a child, a pre-teen, and then finally a teenager. How his chubby legs would swing back and forth as he tried to learn his multiplication; how his fingers would drum out a rhythm on the table after piano lessons; how he would rapid-fire questions at his busy mother. He could imagine so much life here...
So much life in Blaine.
How, how could the boy feel as if he were better off dead? How could he? Didn't he realize how much his existence meant to Kurt?
But, maybe not, Kurt thought, raising his head. Maybe Blaine didn't realize that Kurt didn't visit because he had to fulfill a promise, but because he wanted to.
Maybe he should tell Blaine when he came back. ...If he came back.
*
"Hey, dude."
Kurt sighed and rested his hands on the edge of the sink, gripping the porcelain tight to hold in his frustration. "Please don't call me dude," he requested, his voice anything but a request.
He heard Finn stop behind. "But, you are a dude."
Kurt pressed his lips together and forced his fingers to release the sink. "Be that as it may, I do not like being called one."
He heard the heavy sigh of an accepting Finn, and then the scrape of a chair. "All right, bro. If that's what you want."
Kurt froze, hands deep in soapy water. Bro. Another word he was familiar with, but had never had directed at him. It seemed this was a month of changes. "Bro?" he repeated, hating the shaky quality to his voice.
"What, you don't like that one either?"
"No, it's just..." Kurt sighed, trying to find the right words, and extracted his hands from the soapy water. He tugged the rubber gloves off and hung them off the edge of the sink before turning around to face Finn. He leaned back against the curve of the counter, and folded his hands together at his waist. "I'm... your bro?" he finally asked.
Finn's head cocked like a confused puppy. "Well, yeah," he replied from his seat at the round table in the middle of the kitchen. "I mean, we're gonna be step-brothers in, like, two weeks."
"So, being related to me, makes me your bro," Kurt clarified. It was important that it was established what exactly this new title granted him. If he went over the boundary, he could just be kicked down again.
Finn stretched out his legs before him and stared at his large feet. "I guess. I mean, bro is short for brother. So, you've gotta be my bro." Then he raised his head and grinned at Kurt, looking like he'd just figured out a math problem. "And that makes you a dude."
Kurt blinked once, than twice. "I'm confused," he admitted.
Finn rested one arm on the table and used the other to point at the ceiling. "Okay. Puck is my bro, though he's not my brother, and he's a dude. He's my main dude. Mike is a dude, but not really my bro. Sam is a bro and a dude, but not my main dude." Then he frowned and lowered his arm. "Maybe you're a bro and a dude, but not my dude," he muttered.
There was a tense silence between them as Kurt stared at Finn and Finn frowned at the floor. Finally, Finn groaned. "Dude! You make everything so complicated!"
Kurt rolled his eyes and turned back to the sink. "You're preaching to the choir," he threw over his shoulder. He picked up the gloves again and wondered if Blaine used to use rubber gloves to wash dishes. Did he wash dishes? Did he need to now? Did he even need to eat?
"Huh?"
Kurt sighed and reached for the pan sitting quietly underneath the water. "Tell me about it," he rephrased.
"Oh, okay."
Maybe having a step-brother would be almost bearable.
*
Kurt frowned at the Logan & Ronnie 4ever scribbled inside his history textbook, next to the section on the Treaty of Versailles. He was trying to study and prepare for tutoring Sam tomorrow, but was feeling decidedly uninspired. Sometimes, history was incredible dull.
Or, it could have just been from the dry air of the Anderson house. The possibilities were endless.
He was humming to himself as he flicked through the pages, skimming information to try to spark some interest of a key point. So far, there was nothing but music and a sad song to fit his mood.
"Kentucky blu-ue bird, fly away," he sang softly, going back a page. "And take a message to Michael, message to Michael. Tell him I miss him more each day. As his train pulled out down the track, Michael promised he'd soon be coming back."
A song even older than Blaine, but fitting somehow. Would Blaine come back? Could someone send him a message for Kurt? Let him know how much Kurt missed him and wanted him back... How his very presence made life bearable for Kurt...
His eye caught a paragraph he'd underlined, and remembered the teacher hinting that it might prove important. Feeling a little giddy - finally, a break through! - he folded the page down to help him find it later, and then continued humming.
"Spread your wings for New Orleans. Kentucky, blue bird; fly away. And take a message to Michael, message to Michael. Ask him to start for home today. When you find him, please: let him know... Rich or poor, I will always love him so."
Rich or poor, dead or live, here or gone. No difference, no matter.
"Fly away, Kentucky blue bird; fly away, Kentucky blue bird; fly away-"
"Fly away," came an answer; a rich tenor a little shaky with nerves.
Kurt froze in place, his mouth clicking shut. Even though it had been nearly two weeks since he'd heard that voice, he'd know it anywhere. "Blaine," he breathed.
Rating: Mostly PG-13, with some R stuff for triggers.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Except the order of the words.
A/N: I am so sorry! It was midterm week and work was crazy, and my beta could tell you about how difficult this week was for me, but won't. I hope this chapter was what you were looking for.
A/N: Also, mine and KK's tumblr has been changed. We are now angstoholic.tumblr.com. It's more fitting, I think.
Song is "Message for Michael" by Dionne Warnick. GREAT SONG from the 60's.
Chapter Eleven
The house was so empty, so very, very empty. It was as if all the life had been sucked out of it, a vacuum without being or breath.
Blaine was on the front steps - young and childlike, maybe ten years old. He sat on the top step, knees drawn up to his thin chest and dark curls flopping over his forehead. His eyes stayed locked on Kurt's figure, completely blank of emotion.
Kurt, feeling the absence of life, shivered at the sight. Still, he stepped over until he reached the bottom step. He looked down at Blaine, who had only tilted his head enough to maintain eye contact.
It was eerily creepy.
Kurt cleared his throat and said, "Blaine?"
And Blaine's smile, slow and slippery, did not reach his eyes at all; the result was that of a mannequin. "Who's Blaine?"
His voice was not that of a child's, but the 1987 Blaine. Kurt felt a shudder wash through him at the sound. "Blaine, please," he whispered. "I know you."
Now, the sliding head tilt. "Do you? Or do you know a ghost of Blaine?"
Kurt actually took a step back, and closed his hands over the opposite elbows. "Blaine," he breathed. "I know Blaine."
That empty smile returned. "But who's Blaine?"
A whimper escaped Kurt's mouth and he shook his head in distress. "Please don't do this."
Blaine straightened and released his knees in order to spread his arms out. "Do what, Kurt? This is your dream."
Kurt gasped out a wet cry of pain and dropped his head into his hands. There was a shuddering cry from his lungs and then, quietly, he opened his eyes.
Here was his basement bedroom, not the terribly haunted Anderson house. His bedroom, which would soon belong to someone else; because they were moving; because his dad and Carol were getting married.
The last five days had turned Kurt's world around. Between scaring Blaine off - and where did that boy go? - and the huge announcement of his family doubling, he didn't know what to feel, or if he should feel anything at all. So, he did his best to focus on the silver linings until they were so bright he couldn't see any of the clouds surrounding it.
The days had been filled with planning for the wedding - Carol had been kind enough to ask Kurt to organize everything. While it was proving to be a lot of work, it was a welcome load. There was no time to think of anything else; Carol and Burt wanted to be wed by the end of the month.
But the nights! The nights were haunted by Blaine: his sadness, his loneliness, and his distance from the world. And, just like he was in real life, he was always just out of Kurt's reach, so close and yet so far.
There was no rest to be found anywhere.
*
The Anderson house. Strange how Kurt could not seem to call it by its kinder name: Blaine's house. But maybe that was because it didn't come across as a house, but as a prison. That was, if Blaine couldn't leave the house like Kurt suspected.
Kurt wandered the first floor of the house, flashlight shining and eyes searching. Like it had been the last time he was here - four days ago - it was empty and eerily silent. No life was to be found in this place.
The chill of the house was settling into Kurt's bones and making his shake, the light wavering. He swallowed, hard and desperate. There was nothing in this house without a Blaine present.
"Blaine?" he called; he heard his voice echo back to him. "Are you here?"
No answer. In all honesty, Kurt wasn't expecting one. He wouldn't have trusted himself again if he were Blaine.
"I wonder if you ever know I'm here," he whispered. Maybe he could keep the thoughts to himself, but then he would be all alone in a silent house. At last the noise kept the fear away.
"Are you watching me right now?" Kurt sighed and tugged at the hem of his shirt. "Do you like my outfit today? I, I got it on sale. Black Friday is the day of heroes." He paused for a moment, straightening in surprised thought. "Was there a Black Friday in your time?"
Did it even matter?
Kurt sighed and lowered his arm, letting the beam of the flashlight shine on the ground. He stared at the cracks of the floorboards, the stains of the years, and the obvious ring from where the rug had been for years undisturbed. He thought about what Mrs. Anderson would think of the state of her house, how horrified she would be. There was something that told him that she would have kept a pristine household. Maybe it was in the way Blaine held himself, he wasn't sure.
It didn't matter anymore, though.
Slowly, Kurt lowered himself into the couch, and look down at his lap. He took in another deep breath, and then released it, hoping that the longing would leave him with it.
It didn't.
*
"Kurt!"
Kurt paused in the middle of the hallway, and sighed to himself. With all the disruption of the last week, his fuse had been getting shorter and shorter. He had to actually push down the automatic snappy, icy responses that came to mind, and paint a patience look on his face with every person that crossed his path. Even the ones he was quite fond of.
Rachel Berry was not one he was quite fond of.
He pressed his lips together, tried to remind himself that he, like Rachel, was an imperfect being, then turned on his heel. "Rachel Berry," he greeted, resting his weight on one hip. "What menial task do you require from me today?"
Okay, so maybe he was a little bit nastier than usual.
She stalked up to him, hair flouncing around her shoulders. "I need to discuss choreography for the wedding," she announced, stopped mere inches from him. "As the captain of the New Directions, it's my duty that every performance we do is up to my excellent and admittedly high standard."
Kurt raised an eyebrow. "I see. Well, Rachel, considering how you have song suggestions for me to evaluate, I'm not sure what you were hoping I would say-"
"Finn and I have already decided on a song," Rachel interrupted, raising her chin slightly. It shall be a montage of couples, set to Bruno Mars' "Marry You"."
Kurt felt a sharp sting of annoyance - once again, he would be left out. Him - the third wheel - and the rest of them, happily singing away. And this was his dad's wedding, his present to thank his dad for everything he'd ever done for Kurt (like love him), and they were going to isolate him in this way too.
He closed his eyes for a moment, reminded himself that Rachel was not at fault for everything wrong in his life at this moment, then reopened them. "Am I getting a say in this?" he asked archly. "Since it is my dad's wedding."
She blinked, then widened her eyes as if she was surprised. "I told you, Finn and I were decided. It is his mom's wedding, after all."
Damn her. She was right. And it was the bride's day over the groom's. Kurt narrowed his eyes at her, then said, "Then I assume I have a solo? Or duet, at least?"
She sighed, as if she was burdened by such a foolish person. "Kurt. You are not in a relationship at the moment. We cannot let a love song be sung by a lonely, wretched individual. This is a event of happiness, and love." She looked at him with those earnest brown eyes of her, and finished with, "You don't want to ruin the wedding, do you?"
Kurt inhaled sharply and said, "My singing would not ruin the-"
And then there was a freezing wave of icy cold water, purple and staining and terrible. Kurt gasped, heard Rachel's similar cry, and then the laughter of Neanderthals.
Kurt shuddered in a cold, difficult breath, and felt a cold clump of ice drip off his hair and onto his cheek.
"Happy Tuesday, Gleeks!" the boys sang in chorus; there was a slap - sharing a high five, most likely - and then the world slowly tilted back into reality again, filled with footsteps and soft chatter.
Slowly, Kurt opened his eyes, feeling ice dripping off his eyelashes. Rachel Berry shivered before him, covered in green ice.
And suddenly, Kurt was so very tired of it. No wonder Blaine had killed himself.
"Whatever, Rachel," he said softly. Rachel's eyes snapped open and they locked on his face. He shrugged, feeling slushy slip and slide over his shirt, dripping onto the floor. "Do... whatever your experience says is best."
And then he turned and started for the girl's washroom on the other side of school.
*
"What do you think, Blaine? Purple or yellow?"
Kurt peered at the magazine, trying to judge the colours in the dim candlelight. He had told his dad he was going out to do some studying while Finn and Carole stayed over. Instead, he had driven over to the Anderson house and set up camp.
Now he was judging colours. He had already decided on flowers and fabric. This was one of the final choices before he could send it all away and get the professionals to set everything up. Everything was going according to schedule; he was ahead of the schedule, actually.
"I do like the purple; it's a very, you know, noble... But I don't think it's quite right for dad or Carole... It's almost too nice."
He sighed and propped his chin up on his fist, rubbing the magazine page between his fingers. "I wish you could meet them," he said softly. "You'd love them. And... I know they'd love you. After all, Carol practically had a crush on you back in high school.
"Do you remember them? Or, were you even aware of their existence? I wonder if they would have helped you, if you guys had been friends..."
He lifted his head, and stared at the broken clock over the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room. He drummed a pencil against the surface of the table, and thought about Blaine sitting here doing homework throughout his life: as a child, a pre-teen, and then finally a teenager. How his chubby legs would swing back and forth as he tried to learn his multiplication; how his fingers would drum out a rhythm on the table after piano lessons; how he would rapid-fire questions at his busy mother. He could imagine so much life here...
So much life in Blaine.
How, how could the boy feel as if he were better off dead? How could he? Didn't he realize how much his existence meant to Kurt?
But, maybe not, Kurt thought, raising his head. Maybe Blaine didn't realize that Kurt didn't visit because he had to fulfill a promise, but because he wanted to.
Maybe he should tell Blaine when he came back. ...If he came back.
*
"Hey, dude."
Kurt sighed and rested his hands on the edge of the sink, gripping the porcelain tight to hold in his frustration. "Please don't call me dude," he requested, his voice anything but a request.
He heard Finn stop behind. "But, you are a dude."
Kurt pressed his lips together and forced his fingers to release the sink. "Be that as it may, I do not like being called one."
He heard the heavy sigh of an accepting Finn, and then the scrape of a chair. "All right, bro. If that's what you want."
Kurt froze, hands deep in soapy water. Bro. Another word he was familiar with, but had never had directed at him. It seemed this was a month of changes. "Bro?" he repeated, hating the shaky quality to his voice.
"What, you don't like that one either?"
"No, it's just..." Kurt sighed, trying to find the right words, and extracted his hands from the soapy water. He tugged the rubber gloves off and hung them off the edge of the sink before turning around to face Finn. He leaned back against the curve of the counter, and folded his hands together at his waist. "I'm... your bro?" he finally asked.
Finn's head cocked like a confused puppy. "Well, yeah," he replied from his seat at the round table in the middle of the kitchen. "I mean, we're gonna be step-brothers in, like, two weeks."
"So, being related to me, makes me your bro," Kurt clarified. It was important that it was established what exactly this new title granted him. If he went over the boundary, he could just be kicked down again.
Finn stretched out his legs before him and stared at his large feet. "I guess. I mean, bro is short for brother. So, you've gotta be my bro." Then he raised his head and grinned at Kurt, looking like he'd just figured out a math problem. "And that makes you a dude."
Kurt blinked once, than twice. "I'm confused," he admitted.
Finn rested one arm on the table and used the other to point at the ceiling. "Okay. Puck is my bro, though he's not my brother, and he's a dude. He's my main dude. Mike is a dude, but not really my bro. Sam is a bro and a dude, but not my main dude." Then he frowned and lowered his arm. "Maybe you're a bro and a dude, but not my dude," he muttered.
There was a tense silence between them as Kurt stared at Finn and Finn frowned at the floor. Finally, Finn groaned. "Dude! You make everything so complicated!"
Kurt rolled his eyes and turned back to the sink. "You're preaching to the choir," he threw over his shoulder. He picked up the gloves again and wondered if Blaine used to use rubber gloves to wash dishes. Did he wash dishes? Did he need to now? Did he even need to eat?
"Huh?"
Kurt sighed and reached for the pan sitting quietly underneath the water. "Tell me about it," he rephrased.
"Oh, okay."
Maybe having a step-brother would be almost bearable.
*
Kurt frowned at the Logan & Ronnie 4ever scribbled inside his history textbook, next to the section on the Treaty of Versailles. He was trying to study and prepare for tutoring Sam tomorrow, but was feeling decidedly uninspired. Sometimes, history was incredible dull.
Or, it could have just been from the dry air of the Anderson house. The possibilities were endless.
He was humming to himself as he flicked through the pages, skimming information to try to spark some interest of a key point. So far, there was nothing but music and a sad song to fit his mood.
"Kentucky blu-ue bird, fly away," he sang softly, going back a page. "And take a message to Michael, message to Michael. Tell him I miss him more each day. As his train pulled out down the track, Michael promised he'd soon be coming back."
A song even older than Blaine, but fitting somehow. Would Blaine come back? Could someone send him a message for Kurt? Let him know how much Kurt missed him and wanted him back... How his very presence made life bearable for Kurt...
His eye caught a paragraph he'd underlined, and remembered the teacher hinting that it might prove important. Feeling a little giddy - finally, a break through! - he folded the page down to help him find it later, and then continued humming.
"Spread your wings for New Orleans. Kentucky, blue bird; fly away. And take a message to Michael, message to Michael. Ask him to start for home today. When you find him, please: let him know... Rich or poor, I will always love him so."
Rich or poor, dead or live, here or gone. No difference, no matter.
"Fly away, Kentucky blue bird; fly away, Kentucky blue bird; fly away-"
"Fly away," came an answer; a rich tenor a little shaky with nerves.
Kurt froze in place, his mouth clicking shut. Even though it had been nearly two weeks since he'd heard that voice, he'd know it anywhere. "Blaine," he breathed.