Fic: Lilaced, Moorland Fields (1/7)
Title: Lilaced Moorland Fields - Chapter 1/7
Rating: R
Warnings: This story contains the sexual abuse of a child.
Spoilers: None
Word Count: 3,501
Summary:Kurt and Blaine Hummel have been married for fifteen years, living in New York with their seven-year-old son. As two highly sucessful professionals, they are living not their teenage dreams but couldn't imagine life any other way. Unfortuantely the utopia they had crafted came to a screaching halt one day in late October. Title from The Smith's "Suffer Little Children"
Tony award by twenty-five, married by thirty. Kurt Hummel's life plan was very simple when he started his senior year of high school. Blaine Anderson also had a loft image of then next ten years of his life; he wanted to score a recording contract with some independent label by twenty-four, maybe move up to a more well-known independent label by twenty-seven, and like Kurt, married by thirty. At thirty-nine, when the two of them looked back on those plans, they had a bit of a laugh. Out of all of their plans, only one of them actually came to pass --- they each were married by thirty, both nearly twenty five when they tied the knot in a simple summer ceremony in a lovely park in Connecticut.
Surprisingly, they were the only couple from New Direction’s to make it. While Rachel and Finn had gotten married the summer after graduation, the divorce papers had been signed before either of them could legally drink. Tina and Mike did not make it through the first semester of Tina's senior year. (Mike had caught Tina fooling around with Artie). Mercedes and Sam parted ways amicably when they decided to attend college on opposite coasts. Santana and Brittany, well, Santana actually lived up to that stereotype.
Though, it wouldn't be fair to say that Kurt and Blaine didn't go through their fair share of troubles. Back in college, they had a six month co-habitation period, where they shared a one bedroom apartment after breaking up since they couldn't afford to break their lease. Kurt eventually partitioned a section of the main room off for his sleeping area. It lasted through April until Blaine told Kurt that he was tired of being his fuck-buddy (an arrangement that started accidentally during spring break while both of them were in a bit of a dry spell) and to make a choice, either give their relationship a go or find a new place to live. He had moved back into the bedroom full time by the end of the week.
Kurt exited the 96th St. subway station as he walked the rest of the way to his and Blaine's Upper West Side brownstone, a briefcase slung over one shoulder. They had bought the place together right before Blaine had turned thirty-two, knowing that they needed more space than their small Midtown apartment. Quickly he entered the corner bodega to pick up the gallon of milk Blaine had requested via text before he had left the office.
The office. It's funny how life gets in the way of the best laid plans. Kurt hadn't gotten into NYADA. Neither did Rachel. Instead, he was accepted NYU. A random comparative politics class he took freshman year to fulfill some graduation had evolved into a B.A. in politics before he could blink. He then attended Yale Law after a brilliant summer clerking for a superior court judge. Now, nearing forty, he was one of the most respected corporate lawyers in the city, having made partner at his firm two year ago.
Shuffling his keys, he quickly entered the brownstone and was greeted by the smell of the turkey lasagna he had started in the crockpot that morning.
“I'm home, and I brought the milk,” he called out as he hung up his coat. Toeing off his loafers, he flipped through the mail that was on the side table. Making a quick detour, he put the milk away before padding into the living room.
“Hey, you.”
Blaine was seated on the sofa, reading some article Kurt knew he could never hope to truly understand. With his scruff and slightly graying curls, he was just as handsome as he had been on the staircase at Dalton all those years ago.
Blaine never got that recording contract. While attending Columbia, he was bitten by the math bug and, thanks to AP credits and summer classes, graduated in three years with honors receiving a B.S. in mathematics. While Kurt spent three years at Yale, Blaine had been accepted into Brown University's applied math Ph.D. program. When he announced that he wanted to go into academia nine months before he received his degree, Kurt was resigned to the fact that he probably would not end up living in New York.
It always was the goal to eventually live in New York, even after Broadway was off the table. Kurt had spent his time in when he lived in New Haven and Norwich, CT, then later in Providence thinking about Manhattan and mentally decorating their apartment. But not supporting Blaine was definitely not an option. Blaine had been there when he was freaking out about the decision not to study musical theatre (that was why he had come to New York) and persuaded him to apply to Yale Law when he thought he had no chance on getting in. When they got married after Kurt's second year of law school, Blaine had surprised him by taking Kurt's name. So as Blaine prepared to officially become Dr. Blaine Hummel just shy of his twenty-ninth birthday, the two of them were shocked and overjoyed when NYU of all places offered him a tenured-track professorship with their math department.
“Hey,” said Kurt, giving his husband a quick peck on the lips. He carefully laid his jacket over the back of a chair, loosened his tie, and unbuttoned his sleeves, before sitting down next. “What are you reading?”
“An old article from 2011 about a spacial SIR model used to track the H1N1 virus during the outbreak back when we were in high school. We're hoping that it might be adaptable if the bovine flu mutates to become transmittable to humans.”
Blaine studied mathematical approaches to epidemiology; he often consulted with the CDC and, on occasion, the WHO.
“Okay, then,” he replied, letting his voice trail off. He glanced over to the dining room, to find the table set. “Why didn't start eating yet; it's 6:30.”
“We wanted to wait for you,” said Blaine, pulling off his reading glasses. “He's upstairs in his room. Do you want me to go get him?”
He was the couple's seven-year-old son Anderson. The two of them had decided a year and a half after moving back to New York that they were ready to start the adoption process. Having been warned that the processes normally took years, especially for open adoptions with same-sex parents, they were surprised when a pregnant seventeen-year-old selected them nine months later.
“I'll can do it.”
Kurt called up the stairs to quickly grab their son's attention, while Blaine put food on the table. A minute later a curly haired boy with a light cafe au lait completion came bounding down the stairs.
“Hey Dad.”
“Hey, how was school today?” he asked, giving the seven-year-old a one arm hug, which quickly turned into a bone-crushing embrace on account of his son.
“Fine, I guess,” he replied after he let go, shrugging his shoulders.
Dinner was a pleasant enough experience, more so than some of their previous meals had been in the past few months. Ever since Anderson had started the third grade, he was coming home with notes from his teacher about disruptions he caused during class and concerned about the lack of close friendships with the other students. Ms. Edleson always noted that while he was a delightful boy, always willing to say in during recess to help her, he would often act out.
The last note, which came home last week, detailed him begging to stay and wash the chalkboards instead of going to art class. When she had returned from the teacher's lounge half-way through her free block, she found him back in their classroom cleaning out the chalk trays. This had been the most alarming note for Blaine and Kurt; Anderson was an extremely talented artist and even took part in summer art camp, which his art teacher had personally recommended for him. They were afraid that their son was being bullied by one of his classmates and didn't want to say anything. Ms. Edleson, when told, said she would keep a closer eye on him.
“So we're gonna do an egg drop in science of Friday,” said Anderson, helping Blaine clear the dinner dishes from the table.
“Really?” replied Blaine.
“Yeah we're gonna build contraptions to try to stop the egg from breaking when we throw them out of the third story window.”
“Cool.”
“And today, we drew our designs. Ms. Edleson said my blueprints were really good. And on Thursday we're gonna build them. Dad,” he added looking over at Kurt. “What are we having for dessert?”
“Vanilla ice cream,” answered Kurt. “Papa, would you like some?”
“Just a little bit.”
Kurt carried two bowls back to the table and passed them out. Quickly he grabbed a cup of hot water and packet of chamomile tea before joining them. While he was still a religious coffee drinker, after he turned thirty he found that any caffeine after 3 pm would keep him up half the night.
“Dad, Papa, can we play a game tonight?” asked Anderson, while digging into his ice cream.
“Did you finish all your homework?” inquired Kurt.
“Uh-huh. Papa helped me with long division.”
Kurt nodded. Anderson finished his dessert in record time before scampering to the entertainment closet in the den. Despite his issues at school, their son was still very close to them. Both dreaded when true teenage rebellion would set in. However, Kurt was of the mindset to enjoy the time they had and as such family game night would last as long as it could. The three of them made it through two rounds of Sorry! before it was time for Anderson to start to get ready for bed.
“Do you want Dad or I to help you with your bath?” asked Blaine, as their son scampered towards the stairs.
“Papa, I can shower by myself. I'll be eight years old in December.”
Blaine sighed, while Kurt shook his head as he put away the game pieces. This had been another clashing point between them as of late. Anderson was adamant that he was old enough to shower on his own, without them checking on him. Blaine thought that he might need some supervision, especially since before September he was still taking baths and having him or Kurt wash his hair. Kurt, on the other hand, wasn't nearly as worried about it as his husband. He was quick to pull up the parenting blogs to show him that kids even younger than their son were bathing unassisted. Blaine was still a little uneasy, but Kurt was afraid that his baths could be a point of ridicule for the kids in his class.
“Okay,” said Blaine. “But don't be afraid to holler if you need us.”
Anderson made a face when he thought his parents weren't looking as he bounded up the stairs and into the bathroom.
“Don't give me that look, Kurt,” Blaine groaned.
“What look?” smiled Kurt back at him.
“That look,” he indicated. “That smug look you wear when you think I'm being overprotective and overbearing.”
“I don't think your being overprotective and overbearing,” said Kurt, at which Blaine just scoffed. “I think that your just being a parent. Hey, believe me, I'm glad you care so much.”
The two of them worked in comfortable silence putting away the leftovers from dinner and wiping down the counter tops, listening to the water run upstairs. As Kurt handed Blaine freshly washed dishes to dry, he felt his husband lean his head on his shoulder. “Tired?”
“Long day. Long month actually. I just can't wait until November 3rd. Once I submit to AML, I can just breath.”
“You know you can always submit it next month,” the lawyer chuckled.
“Yeah, but I've been working on it for so long. I just want to get it published and done. Because then there's NSF proposals to write, and I just know Carl Yi from Computational and Applied Mathematics is going to ask me to peer review something after he helped me out last summer. Then I have that AMS conference the first week of December. I feel like I have no time until after finals. What?”
“Nothing, just you,” said Kurt staring at Blaine for a moment with a small grin.
“Then why are you looking at me like that?”
“It's just I really find the whole professor thing really sexy,” he mused, drying off his hands. He then Blaine by the back of the neck and kissed him deeply. Blaine's arms quickly wound around his husband's back, pulling him closer.
“Ew, stop it.”
The two men jumped apart to find Anderson behind them, his red face buried in his hands. Neither of them had heard the shower go off.
“I thought he wasn't supposed to be embarrassed by us until he was a teenager,” whispered Kurt. He pecked Blaine once more on the lips. Louder, “Okay, you can look now. Lets get you into bed. Did you brush your teeth already?” Kurt asked as he and Anderson headed back upstairs.
Blaine lagged behind, laying the dish towel out to dry and emptying the water from the sink, a smile still on his face. Honestly, the whole embarrassing your kid was kind of great at times. He now totally understood why his mother displayed candid toddler pictures of him proudly in the entry way of his childhood home. As he headed upstairs, he could hear Kurt softly singing.
“When you wake, you will have all the pretty little ponies. ”
Kurt's soprano rang out as he sat on the end of the bed, lights turned down low. Blaine just stared for a moment, relishing in the domesticity of it all, before joining in.
“All the pretty little ponies, will be their when you arise. ”
Their voices still melded as perfectly as they did back in high school. As they finished, Kurt placed a kiss on Anderson's forehead as his husband quietly shuffled over to say goodnight.
“One more, Papa,” he begged.
“Not tonight, you have school tomorrow,” he replied, giving his son another good night kiss. “See you in the morning.”
“See you in the evening,” quipped back Anderson.
“See you in the wintertime,” they spoke together.
Turning the light off, the two men closed the door and headed back downstairs. Blaine flopped onto the couch.
“Uhhh,” he sighed. Noticing the other man heading to the kitchen, he called out, “I already finished straightening everything out in there.”
“I know,” replied Kurt.
“Well, then why aren't you in here?” Blaine whined a little, grabbing the TV remote. He flipped through the channels for a few minutes before settling on an old John Hughes flick.
“I'm bringing you dessert,” called Kurt.
“So that ice cream was...?
“Let me rephrase that,” said Kurt, reemerging from the kitchen. “I bringing you grownup dessert.”
Blaine leaned backward over the couch and saw his husband coming over with two glasses and a bottle of Merlot. “God you are amazing.”
“Well, I do try,” he said, filling the two glasses up halfway. He handed one glass to his husband and joined him on the couch. “I love this movie. Molly Ringwald is just quintessential 80's.”
The two watched in silence, sipping red wine for a while just enjoying each others company.
“I called Dr. Marshal today,” said Blaine, breaking the silence. Dr. Marshal was Anderson's pediatrician. “He said that Anderson's recent bed wetting is probably stress induced.”
Bed wetting. Another issue of Anderson's that had started in the beginning of third grade. It had become a weekly occurrence since the beginning of the year. It really worried them; the boy hadn't had any nighttime accidents since he was five. It was a very touchy subject with their son; he flat out refused to wear a pull-up or something to bed.
“Stress induced?”
“Yeah, and it kind of makes sense.” said Blaine as he poured a second glass. “If he is being bullied at school, the bed wetting could be a result. Though he said that it could be some sort of bladder issue. I made an appointment for him to go in next week. Do you want some more?”
Kurt shook his head, declining a second glass. “I have that deposition for the Waterson account all day tomorrow.”
“Oh that's right. How is that whole shindig going?”
He just rolled his eyes in frustration. “I just want it all to be over. Waterson's at fault; I know it, Nick Peterson knows it, hell even Waterson knows it. I really just trying to figure out how to get out of it without making a total fool out of myself.”
The two of them continued to discuss work while the movie played in the background. Blaine expressed his disbelief that students in his section of calc II were still turning homework in late yet surprised when they were penalized for it. It was written on the syllabus in bold that late homework would be docked ten points per day.
“I'm worried about how some of them are going to do on the midterm tomorrow,” he mused during a commercial break.
“Why? I really don't understand why you put in all this effort to help them if they don't seem to appreciate it.”
“The thing is, there are those who do appreciate it. And if I can show just one student that math isn't as pointless as so many of them think, I count it as a win.”
Kurt sighted and kissed Blaine on the temple. “I know you do, I just hate seeing you stressing out like this.”
When the film ended, Blaine gathered up their glasses while Kurt set the alarm system. 10:30 and all he wanted to do was go to bed - god he felt old. Heading upstairs, Kurt detoured into Anderson's room in order to wake him up to use to bathroom one more time, while his husband steered directly into the master suite.
Blaine was in the master bathroom brushing his teeth, when Kurt joined him. He grinned, until he felt toothpaste dribbling out of the corner of his mouth. Kurt grinned and shook his head, grabbing his face wash.
“You're such a goober,” he said, watching his husband wipe his face.
It's funny how life changes with kids, even just one. Their current skin shlepping ritual was much more abbreviated than the one they shared in high school. At that time, both of them were sure that by the time that they were forty, their skin regiment would take at least an hour in order to properly fight aging. Yet here they were with a nightly bathroom routine that took about fifteen minutes, containing a single wrinkle crème, and for Blaine an eye syrum, Kurt an even skin tone illuminator (even with an impressive titanium oxide based sunscreen, he still had some signs of sun damage.) as well as general face wash and moisturizer. He supposed that it helped that neither of struggled with acne as much as they did all those years ago. Also both preferred the extra thirty minutes of sleep this routine afforded them.
After finishing his bathroom routine, Blaine stripped his clothes from the day, he pulled on a pair of plaid flannel pants, looking at himself in the large mirror over the lowboy that Kurt used as a dressing table. Groaning, he grabbed his stomach noting the slight pudge.
“Uh, time to start going to the gym again,” he griped himself.
“I think you look fine.” A pair of arms wrapped around his waist and Kurt kissed his bare shoulder. “It's not like I have time to keep up my abs either. And besides you still have really nice arms.”
“Still, I think there's a spinning class starting next week with the new quarter at school. Maybe I'll join.”
“If I makes you happy,” said Kurt as he dressed for bed. “At least you still have a full head of hair.”
“You look fine,” said Blaine, getting into bed. It wasn't as if Kurt had a gaping bald spot. His hairline was just receding a little bit, that was all. “It makes you look distinguished and authoritative. Very lawyerly. Now get into bed, I'm cold.”
Kurt quickly joined his husband, turning off the lights. Wishing each other goodnight, they kissed and curled up in the middle of the bed, soon asleep.
Chapter 2
Rating: R
Warnings: This story contains the sexual abuse of a child.
Spoilers: None
Word Count: 3,501
Summary:Kurt and Blaine Hummel have been married for fifteen years, living in New York with their seven-year-old son. As two highly sucessful professionals, they are living not their teenage dreams but couldn't imagine life any other way. Unfortuantely the utopia they had crafted came to a screaching halt one day in late October. Title from The Smith's "Suffer Little Children"
Tony award by twenty-five, married by thirty. Kurt Hummel's life plan was very simple when he started his senior year of high school. Blaine Anderson also had a loft image of then next ten years of his life; he wanted to score a recording contract with some independent label by twenty-four, maybe move up to a more well-known independent label by twenty-seven, and like Kurt, married by thirty. At thirty-nine, when the two of them looked back on those plans, they had a bit of a laugh. Out of all of their plans, only one of them actually came to pass --- they each were married by thirty, both nearly twenty five when they tied the knot in a simple summer ceremony in a lovely park in Connecticut.
Surprisingly, they were the only couple from New Direction’s to make it. While Rachel and Finn had gotten married the summer after graduation, the divorce papers had been signed before either of them could legally drink. Tina and Mike did not make it through the first semester of Tina's senior year. (Mike had caught Tina fooling around with Artie). Mercedes and Sam parted ways amicably when they decided to attend college on opposite coasts. Santana and Brittany, well, Santana actually lived up to that stereotype.
Though, it wouldn't be fair to say that Kurt and Blaine didn't go through their fair share of troubles. Back in college, they had a six month co-habitation period, where they shared a one bedroom apartment after breaking up since they couldn't afford to break their lease. Kurt eventually partitioned a section of the main room off for his sleeping area. It lasted through April until Blaine told Kurt that he was tired of being his fuck-buddy (an arrangement that started accidentally during spring break while both of them were in a bit of a dry spell) and to make a choice, either give their relationship a go or find a new place to live. He had moved back into the bedroom full time by the end of the week.
Kurt exited the 96th St. subway station as he walked the rest of the way to his and Blaine's Upper West Side brownstone, a briefcase slung over one shoulder. They had bought the place together right before Blaine had turned thirty-two, knowing that they needed more space than their small Midtown apartment. Quickly he entered the corner bodega to pick up the gallon of milk Blaine had requested via text before he had left the office.
The office. It's funny how life gets in the way of the best laid plans. Kurt hadn't gotten into NYADA. Neither did Rachel. Instead, he was accepted NYU. A random comparative politics class he took freshman year to fulfill some graduation had evolved into a B.A. in politics before he could blink. He then attended Yale Law after a brilliant summer clerking for a superior court judge. Now, nearing forty, he was one of the most respected corporate lawyers in the city, having made partner at his firm two year ago.
Shuffling his keys, he quickly entered the brownstone and was greeted by the smell of the turkey lasagna he had started in the crockpot that morning.
“I'm home, and I brought the milk,” he called out as he hung up his coat. Toeing off his loafers, he flipped through the mail that was on the side table. Making a quick detour, he put the milk away before padding into the living room.
“Hey, you.”
Blaine was seated on the sofa, reading some article Kurt knew he could never hope to truly understand. With his scruff and slightly graying curls, he was just as handsome as he had been on the staircase at Dalton all those years ago.
Blaine never got that recording contract. While attending Columbia, he was bitten by the math bug and, thanks to AP credits and summer classes, graduated in three years with honors receiving a B.S. in mathematics. While Kurt spent three years at Yale, Blaine had been accepted into Brown University's applied math Ph.D. program. When he announced that he wanted to go into academia nine months before he received his degree, Kurt was resigned to the fact that he probably would not end up living in New York.
It always was the goal to eventually live in New York, even after Broadway was off the table. Kurt had spent his time in when he lived in New Haven and Norwich, CT, then later in Providence thinking about Manhattan and mentally decorating their apartment. But not supporting Blaine was definitely not an option. Blaine had been there when he was freaking out about the decision not to study musical theatre (that was why he had come to New York) and persuaded him to apply to Yale Law when he thought he had no chance on getting in. When they got married after Kurt's second year of law school, Blaine had surprised him by taking Kurt's name. So as Blaine prepared to officially become Dr. Blaine Hummel just shy of his twenty-ninth birthday, the two of them were shocked and overjoyed when NYU of all places offered him a tenured-track professorship with their math department.
“Hey,” said Kurt, giving his husband a quick peck on the lips. He carefully laid his jacket over the back of a chair, loosened his tie, and unbuttoned his sleeves, before sitting down next. “What are you reading?”
“An old article from 2011 about a spacial SIR model used to track the H1N1 virus during the outbreak back when we were in high school. We're hoping that it might be adaptable if the bovine flu mutates to become transmittable to humans.”
Blaine studied mathematical approaches to epidemiology; he often consulted with the CDC and, on occasion, the WHO.
“Okay, then,” he replied, letting his voice trail off. He glanced over to the dining room, to find the table set. “Why didn't start eating yet; it's 6:30.”
“We wanted to wait for you,” said Blaine, pulling off his reading glasses. “He's upstairs in his room. Do you want me to go get him?”
He was the couple's seven-year-old son Anderson. The two of them had decided a year and a half after moving back to New York that they were ready to start the adoption process. Having been warned that the processes normally took years, especially for open adoptions with same-sex parents, they were surprised when a pregnant seventeen-year-old selected them nine months later.
“I'll can do it.”
Kurt called up the stairs to quickly grab their son's attention, while Blaine put food on the table. A minute later a curly haired boy with a light cafe au lait completion came bounding down the stairs.
“Hey Dad.”
“Hey, how was school today?” he asked, giving the seven-year-old a one arm hug, which quickly turned into a bone-crushing embrace on account of his son.
“Fine, I guess,” he replied after he let go, shrugging his shoulders.
Dinner was a pleasant enough experience, more so than some of their previous meals had been in the past few months. Ever since Anderson had started the third grade, he was coming home with notes from his teacher about disruptions he caused during class and concerned about the lack of close friendships with the other students. Ms. Edleson always noted that while he was a delightful boy, always willing to say in during recess to help her, he would often act out.
The last note, which came home last week, detailed him begging to stay and wash the chalkboards instead of going to art class. When she had returned from the teacher's lounge half-way through her free block, she found him back in their classroom cleaning out the chalk trays. This had been the most alarming note for Blaine and Kurt; Anderson was an extremely talented artist and even took part in summer art camp, which his art teacher had personally recommended for him. They were afraid that their son was being bullied by one of his classmates and didn't want to say anything. Ms. Edleson, when told, said she would keep a closer eye on him.
“So we're gonna do an egg drop in science of Friday,” said Anderson, helping Blaine clear the dinner dishes from the table.
“Really?” replied Blaine.
“Yeah we're gonna build contraptions to try to stop the egg from breaking when we throw them out of the third story window.”
“Cool.”
“And today, we drew our designs. Ms. Edleson said my blueprints were really good. And on Thursday we're gonna build them. Dad,” he added looking over at Kurt. “What are we having for dessert?”
“Vanilla ice cream,” answered Kurt. “Papa, would you like some?”
“Just a little bit.”
Kurt carried two bowls back to the table and passed them out. Quickly he grabbed a cup of hot water and packet of chamomile tea before joining them. While he was still a religious coffee drinker, after he turned thirty he found that any caffeine after 3 pm would keep him up half the night.
“Dad, Papa, can we play a game tonight?” asked Anderson, while digging into his ice cream.
“Did you finish all your homework?” inquired Kurt.
“Uh-huh. Papa helped me with long division.”
Kurt nodded. Anderson finished his dessert in record time before scampering to the entertainment closet in the den. Despite his issues at school, their son was still very close to them. Both dreaded when true teenage rebellion would set in. However, Kurt was of the mindset to enjoy the time they had and as such family game night would last as long as it could. The three of them made it through two rounds of Sorry! before it was time for Anderson to start to get ready for bed.
“Do you want Dad or I to help you with your bath?” asked Blaine, as their son scampered towards the stairs.
“Papa, I can shower by myself. I'll be eight years old in December.”
Blaine sighed, while Kurt shook his head as he put away the game pieces. This had been another clashing point between them as of late. Anderson was adamant that he was old enough to shower on his own, without them checking on him. Blaine thought that he might need some supervision, especially since before September he was still taking baths and having him or Kurt wash his hair. Kurt, on the other hand, wasn't nearly as worried about it as his husband. He was quick to pull up the parenting blogs to show him that kids even younger than their son were bathing unassisted. Blaine was still a little uneasy, but Kurt was afraid that his baths could be a point of ridicule for the kids in his class.
“Okay,” said Blaine. “But don't be afraid to holler if you need us.”
Anderson made a face when he thought his parents weren't looking as he bounded up the stairs and into the bathroom.
“Don't give me that look, Kurt,” Blaine groaned.
“What look?” smiled Kurt back at him.
“That look,” he indicated. “That smug look you wear when you think I'm being overprotective and overbearing.”
“I don't think your being overprotective and overbearing,” said Kurt, at which Blaine just scoffed. “I think that your just being a parent. Hey, believe me, I'm glad you care so much.”
The two of them worked in comfortable silence putting away the leftovers from dinner and wiping down the counter tops, listening to the water run upstairs. As Kurt handed Blaine freshly washed dishes to dry, he felt his husband lean his head on his shoulder. “Tired?”
“Long day. Long month actually. I just can't wait until November 3rd. Once I submit to AML, I can just breath.”
“You know you can always submit it next month,” the lawyer chuckled.
“Yeah, but I've been working on it for so long. I just want to get it published and done. Because then there's NSF proposals to write, and I just know Carl Yi from Computational and Applied Mathematics is going to ask me to peer review something after he helped me out last summer. Then I have that AMS conference the first week of December. I feel like I have no time until after finals. What?”
“Nothing, just you,” said Kurt staring at Blaine for a moment with a small grin.
“Then why are you looking at me like that?”
“It's just I really find the whole professor thing really sexy,” he mused, drying off his hands. He then Blaine by the back of the neck and kissed him deeply. Blaine's arms quickly wound around his husband's back, pulling him closer.
“Ew, stop it.”
The two men jumped apart to find Anderson behind them, his red face buried in his hands. Neither of them had heard the shower go off.
“I thought he wasn't supposed to be embarrassed by us until he was a teenager,” whispered Kurt. He pecked Blaine once more on the lips. Louder, “Okay, you can look now. Lets get you into bed. Did you brush your teeth already?” Kurt asked as he and Anderson headed back upstairs.
Blaine lagged behind, laying the dish towel out to dry and emptying the water from the sink, a smile still on his face. Honestly, the whole embarrassing your kid was kind of great at times. He now totally understood why his mother displayed candid toddler pictures of him proudly in the entry way of his childhood home. As he headed upstairs, he could hear Kurt softly singing.
“When you wake, you will have all the pretty little ponies. ”
Kurt's soprano rang out as he sat on the end of the bed, lights turned down low. Blaine just stared for a moment, relishing in the domesticity of it all, before joining in.
“All the pretty little ponies, will be their when you arise. ”
Their voices still melded as perfectly as they did back in high school. As they finished, Kurt placed a kiss on Anderson's forehead as his husband quietly shuffled over to say goodnight.
“One more, Papa,” he begged.
“Not tonight, you have school tomorrow,” he replied, giving his son another good night kiss. “See you in the morning.”
“See you in the evening,” quipped back Anderson.
“See you in the wintertime,” they spoke together.
Turning the light off, the two men closed the door and headed back downstairs. Blaine flopped onto the couch.
“Uhhh,” he sighed. Noticing the other man heading to the kitchen, he called out, “I already finished straightening everything out in there.”
“I know,” replied Kurt.
“Well, then why aren't you in here?” Blaine whined a little, grabbing the TV remote. He flipped through the channels for a few minutes before settling on an old John Hughes flick.
“I'm bringing you dessert,” called Kurt.
“So that ice cream was...?
“Let me rephrase that,” said Kurt, reemerging from the kitchen. “I bringing you grownup dessert.”
Blaine leaned backward over the couch and saw his husband coming over with two glasses and a bottle of Merlot. “God you are amazing.”
“Well, I do try,” he said, filling the two glasses up halfway. He handed one glass to his husband and joined him on the couch. “I love this movie. Molly Ringwald is just quintessential 80's.”
The two watched in silence, sipping red wine for a while just enjoying each others company.
“I called Dr. Marshal today,” said Blaine, breaking the silence. Dr. Marshal was Anderson's pediatrician. “He said that Anderson's recent bed wetting is probably stress induced.”
Bed wetting. Another issue of Anderson's that had started in the beginning of third grade. It had become a weekly occurrence since the beginning of the year. It really worried them; the boy hadn't had any nighttime accidents since he was five. It was a very touchy subject with their son; he flat out refused to wear a pull-up or something to bed.
“Stress induced?”
“Yeah, and it kind of makes sense.” said Blaine as he poured a second glass. “If he is being bullied at school, the bed wetting could be a result. Though he said that it could be some sort of bladder issue. I made an appointment for him to go in next week. Do you want some more?”
Kurt shook his head, declining a second glass. “I have that deposition for the Waterson account all day tomorrow.”
“Oh that's right. How is that whole shindig going?”
He just rolled his eyes in frustration. “I just want it all to be over. Waterson's at fault; I know it, Nick Peterson knows it, hell even Waterson knows it. I really just trying to figure out how to get out of it without making a total fool out of myself.”
The two of them continued to discuss work while the movie played in the background. Blaine expressed his disbelief that students in his section of calc II were still turning homework in late yet surprised when they were penalized for it. It was written on the syllabus in bold that late homework would be docked ten points per day.
“I'm worried about how some of them are going to do on the midterm tomorrow,” he mused during a commercial break.
“Why? I really don't understand why you put in all this effort to help them if they don't seem to appreciate it.”
“The thing is, there are those who do appreciate it. And if I can show just one student that math isn't as pointless as so many of them think, I count it as a win.”
Kurt sighted and kissed Blaine on the temple. “I know you do, I just hate seeing you stressing out like this.”
When the film ended, Blaine gathered up their glasses while Kurt set the alarm system. 10:30 and all he wanted to do was go to bed - god he felt old. Heading upstairs, Kurt detoured into Anderson's room in order to wake him up to use to bathroom one more time, while his husband steered directly into the master suite.
Blaine was in the master bathroom brushing his teeth, when Kurt joined him. He grinned, until he felt toothpaste dribbling out of the corner of his mouth. Kurt grinned and shook his head, grabbing his face wash.
“You're such a goober,” he said, watching his husband wipe his face.
It's funny how life changes with kids, even just one. Their current skin shlepping ritual was much more abbreviated than the one they shared in high school. At that time, both of them were sure that by the time that they were forty, their skin regiment would take at least an hour in order to properly fight aging. Yet here they were with a nightly bathroom routine that took about fifteen minutes, containing a single wrinkle crème, and for Blaine an eye syrum, Kurt an even skin tone illuminator (even with an impressive titanium oxide based sunscreen, he still had some signs of sun damage.) as well as general face wash and moisturizer. He supposed that it helped that neither of struggled with acne as much as they did all those years ago. Also both preferred the extra thirty minutes of sleep this routine afforded them.
After finishing his bathroom routine, Blaine stripped his clothes from the day, he pulled on a pair of plaid flannel pants, looking at himself in the large mirror over the lowboy that Kurt used as a dressing table. Groaning, he grabbed his stomach noting the slight pudge.
“Uh, time to start going to the gym again,” he griped himself.
“I think you look fine.” A pair of arms wrapped around his waist and Kurt kissed his bare shoulder. “It's not like I have time to keep up my abs either. And besides you still have really nice arms.”
“Still, I think there's a spinning class starting next week with the new quarter at school. Maybe I'll join.”
“If I makes you happy,” said Kurt as he dressed for bed. “At least you still have a full head of hair.”
“You look fine,” said Blaine, getting into bed. It wasn't as if Kurt had a gaping bald spot. His hairline was just receding a little bit, that was all. “It makes you look distinguished and authoritative. Very lawyerly. Now get into bed, I'm cold.”
Kurt quickly joined his husband, turning off the lights. Wishing each other goodnight, they kissed and curled up in the middle of the bed, soon asleep.
Chapter 2