Genre: Angst, especially heavy on the Blaine angst
Rating: R (mainly for language & subject matter in this chapter)
Word Count: 2,537
Warnings: Discussions of infidelity
Summary: Future - Kurt and Blaine have been together for 19 years. Then, Kurt's doubts threaten to ruin their perfect lives. Again. Is it over, or will it be just another interruption?
Disclaimer: Clearly, I don't own Glee or it would be the Klaine show and I'd air it on HBO.
A/N: I ship Klaine like it's my job. I ,too, hate WIPs, so I've waited until I was way ahead in writing to begin posting. The entire story is outlined & the first five chapters are complete. I plan on updating twice a week. Without the ears and eyes of mickeyrandy3, myfeetlitup, and aelora, and the brilliance that is Crazy, Stupid, Love. this never would have happened. Blame them.
Blaine dropped the keys onto the hutch in the foyer, careful not to stir the sleeping child in his arms. Tori had passed out in his lap on the LIRR* back from Manhattan. When they had reached their car in the train station parking lot, he had not had the heart to leave her in the backseat where she would no doubt end up slumped against Bertie’s cold, plastic car seat. Plus, she always liked riding up front with Daddy. They had ridden in silence, Tori dead asleep on her daddy’s shoulder, her mouth open in a perfect O, drooling a bit on his Burberry scarf, her dark curls mingling with her father’s.
“You spoil her,” Kurt whispered, crossing the threshold of their South Strathmore Tudor, pushing the grand front door shut with his hip, his own arms filled with a bundle named Bertie. “She has to be getting heavy.”
“Labor of love,” Blaine said, his voice low. “And I do not spoil her,” Blaine began as he toed off his signature loafers from the Legend Collection – the newest in the Hummel line. “To say so would imply that she is spoiled, when in fact, she is perfect.”
Kurt rolled his eyes in response but a slight smile played at his lips. “Let’s get these two to bed,” he said, shifting the dozing toddler in his arms. Blaine began sliding his bare feet across the marble in a strange sort of shuffle toward the staircase. “You’re ridiculous,” Kurt scoffed, his vintage Alexander McQueen’s clicking lightly as he walked.
“Well, excuse me for not wanted to slip, fall and seriously injure our perfect daughter.”
“You could just keep your shoes on, Blaine.”
“And risk scuffing them? No,” Blaine responded, carefully maneuvering up the rounded staircase. “I can’t believe you’re still in yours.”
“One does not simply toe off Alexander McQueens.”
“Well, my shoes are better than yours, so…”
“True. But, alas, I cannot wear my own designs to my own event. It’s tacky.”
“But covering your husband and children in Hummel attire, down to Bertie’s pull-up, isn’t?”
“Blaine!” Kurt protested. Blaine raised a finger to his smirking lips, “Shhh, you’ll wake them.”
Finally, atop the stairs, Blaine and Kurt took a left down the hallway to their children’s bedrooms, passing portraits of Tori and Blaine’s best kissy faces, Bertie using Kurt’s nose as a pacifier, and one of all of them in the backyard, Tori clutching a six-month old Bertie and Blaine with his arm around Kurt’s waist as they gesture proudly to the newly erected tree house behind them.
Kurt had insisted on Tori and Bertie having separate bedrooms. He had said something about independence, the age difference, and “Blaine, the house is huge; we may as well utilize it!” However, Blaine was sure it was mostly because Kurt wanted an excuse to do more decorating. In fact, he was certain of it.
Tori, all of seven, was developing her own tastes and currently she had a taste for purple. Lots of purple. Kurt did not approve but could not refuse and did the best he could with the color pallet she demanded. Bertie, on the other hand, being two years old, was only particular about his sippy cup, so Kurt had free reign. No toddler in America had a more sophisticated nursery. Burnt orange walls, a red wine chaise lounge (“rocking chairs were so last century”), and deep yellow accents and throw pillows, brought together with the most intricate floor rug Blaine had ever seen. The day Bertie had spit up on the rug had been a national disaster.
With the kids safely tucked away and the baby monitors switched on (“I worry. What if Tori needs water in the night?”), Kurt and Blaine headed back down the hallway toward the master suite. It had been what really sold Kurt on the house. Well, that and the imported granite countertops in the kitchen. Blaine loved it because he got to share it with Kurt, in their home, with their children sleeping down the hall. In that room, with Kurt, was where Blaine felt most like a part of a family.
Blaine reached out to place his hand on the small of Kurt’s back, but Kurt sped up just as Blaine’s fingertips brushed against his coat. Just out of Blaine’s reach. Kurt arrived at the double doors of their bedroom first and pushed them open with a sigh.
Kurt made quick work of undressing, carefully hanging coats and scarves, and even though it would be delivered to the dry cleaner’s tomorrow, Kurt still hung his McQueen suit. By the time Kurt was in his silk pajamas and seated in front of his vanity, Blaine had changed, turned down the bed and was on his side of their bed, making his way again, by lamp light, through Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse Five.
Kurt silently and diligently went through the work of his nightly skin sloughing routine. When Blaine had joined him in New York some 19 years ago and they had started their life together, he had been outraged to find that Blaine had never actually joined in the skin care routine (“I knew I could see your pores!”). His anger had dissipated, however, upon Blaine’s further confession that he had lain under his covers, muttering affirmations into the phone, content just to hear Kurt’s voice as he drifted into sleep.
Blaine bookmarked and closed his novel, replacing it on the nightstand before switching off the lamp. He slid beneath the covers, resting his head on his pillow, and was almost asleep when he heard Kurt rise from his vanity and pad over to the bed. Feeling Kurt’s weight depress the mattress, Blaine automatically rolled over, ready to take Kurt into his arms for the night. But Kurt lingered, seated at the edge of the bed, his stiff back to Blaine. When Kurt finally lay down, he did not scoot backward into Blaine’s waiting warmth like usual, but stayed huddled on his side. Concerned, Blaine inched toward his lover and placed a gentle hand on his hip. Kurt tensed and Blaine pulled back as if he had been burned.
Something was wrong. Something had been wrong all night. Kurt had not been himself at the launch of his new collection. He had been cold and aloof, especially toward Blaine, but Blaine had just thought it was the stress. Now, he was sure it was more.
“Kurt,” his hoarse whisper filled the room. “Babe. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” It was a lie.
“Kurt. You’ve been off all night. Even Tori noticed you didn’t join in our potato dance like you usually do,” Blaine tried at a joke, reaching out again to run his hand up and down Kurt’s arm. Blaine never could resist touching Kurt.
“It’s nothing. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Kurt.” Just his name. Kurt had always been amazed at how Blaine could embed, demand, request and give so much in the one syllable of his name. He had never been able to deny Blaine the truth, especially when appealed for in this way.
“I’m just not sure anymore,” Kurt uttered in a defeated whisper.
“About what? Is it something at work? A new design giving you trouble?”
“You could say that.”
“Kurt. Don’t be coy. Tell me about it.” There it was again. His name. He had to. He owed him this.
“His name is Brimley.”
Blaine’s hand stilled on Kurt’s arm. “You’re unsure? About Brimley?” It was a question within a question and Kurt could hear the fear and latent trust, and knew he was about to shatter the latter. Kurt thought fleetingly that he should turn to face him, but knew neither of them had the strength.
“No.” The breath barely escaped his mouth but it was audible and Kurt could feel the steadying breath Blaine took, his grip noticeably firmer on Kurt’s arm. When Blaine finally spoke, a breath marked every punctuation, as though the impending truth was suffocating him.
“Then…what are you…unsure about?”
Blaine’s hand was gone. Blaine was gone. Kurt finally turned, propped up on his knees ready to chase him, but what he saw riveted him to the spot. It was as though he had emerged from a bunker to see the utter destruction and carnage unfathomable he had caused. Even in the darkness of their bedroom, he could see Blaine, curved in on himself, huddled at the edge of the bed, his hands cradling and hiding his face.
Blaine was doubled over, trying to navigate the rising tide of questions. When did Kurt and I last make love? Who else knows? What will we tell Tori? What did I do wrong? Does Kurt love him? Does he still love me? How will we tell Tori? Can I fix this? Has Kurt had him in our house, in our bed? The last thought drove him from the bed to his feet.
“How long?” The words tumbled out and Blaine was surprised by the strength in his own voice and the clarity of his words because his mind was a maze fraught with the danger of doubts, and worse, potential answers, at every corner.
“How long!” Blaine raised his voice and it was dripping with tension that was filling the growing space between he and Kurt.
“Blaine, it’s not like that. We haven’t –“
“We? So it’s ‘we’ now?”
“No. Blaine, please,” Kurt pled, frantic with the need to explain. “Brimley and I –“
“Why does that sound so familiar?” There was a new quality to Blaine’s tone, as though laughter was lurking beneath the surface.
“I may have mentioned him before…” Kurt’s voice was small, cautious.
“No. It reminds me of something,” Blaine searched his mind, sure there was a reason beyond the obvious why this name triggered something. “Sugar…” he played with the word and a slight smile began to form at his lips, clashing against his eyes brimming with tears and anger.
“Blaine, please,” Kurt begged, knowing what was coming.
“Or hospitals…” Blaine cocked his head to the side, the now wide, sarcastic smile firmly affixed to his face.
“No, Blaine. Don’t.”
“Haha, yes! I remember now,” and affecting a terrible southern accent, Blaine continued, “Get your di-a-bee-tus testing supplies at Liberty Medical. It’ll help you live a better life.” They had shared this joke years ago, in their youth together. It had been funny then. They had laughed until their cheeks and stomachs burned with the hilarity of an old man extolling the benefits of Liberty Medical in the fight against di-a-bee-tus. Now it served as a reminder of all Blaine had certainly lost in the last minute: his past, his future, his best friend. And Blaine was crazy with it. He paced the room, teetering back and forth between hysterical tears and maniacal laughter.
Kurt stood stock still as Blaine unraveled around him, afraid any movement would tip Blaine to one extreme.
“So, you’re into Wilfred T. Brimley?” Blaine discovered he was yelling, but could not bring himself to stop. “If it was a mustache you wanted, Kurt, I would’ve grown one for you. All you had to do was ask.”
“Stop it, Blaine. This isn’t a joke.” Kurt’s voice was controlled, they both could not fall apart, he had to stay standing. After all, he had been the one who pushed.
“Don’t tell me about jokes,” Blaine spat. The force of the words almost sent Kurt to his knees as Blaine’s wall of indignant sarcasm crumbled and Blaine was left standing there exposed in his pain and outrage. “You’ve made this a joke,” he said, gesturing around their still dark bedroom. “Our life together. Tori and Bertie. Our love. All big fucking jokes. Why aren’t you laughing, Kurt? Huh? It’s all just so-fucking-funny!”
“Daddy?” A whisper. “Papa?” It was Tori. She was standing in their doorway, her curls mussed, a clump of her royal purple nightgown clutched in one of her tiny fists, her watery brown eyes darting back and forth between her fathers.
All of Blaine’s anger turned inward as he watched, immobile, as Kurt rushed to Tori, dropping to his knees at her purple, house-shoed feet.
“Please don’t fight,” she implored Kurt, now eye to eye. “I don’t like it, Papa. And you’ll wake Bertie, and nobody likes that,” she added with a sniffle. Kurt thumbed a tear from her cheek.
“We’re sorry, sweet pea.”
“You’re right, angel,” Blaine added, waking from his reverie and walking toward his daughter and husband. “We shouldn’t fight. Do you want to go check on Bertie?” Blaine asked, taking her hand.
“I checked on my way here. But we should check again. Just in case,” Tori decided with a little nod.
“Just in case,” Blaine confirmed, lifting her onto his hip and setting out toward Bertie’s room, Kurt keeping pace behind them.
They found Bertie fast asleep in his limited edition crib. He had really tired himself out on the train home demonstrating his rendition of the potato dance for all the passengers. Secure in the knowledge that Bertie was safe in dreamland, Tori allowed her fathers to tuck her back into bed.
Blaine bent down, smoothed Tori’s lilac comforter and whispered, “Goodnight, angel. Daddy and Papa love you.”
“Do Daddy and Papa love each other?”
Blaine’s eyes instinctively closed against the pain. After a moment, he answered, “Daddy loves Papa.”
“And Papa loves Daddy,” Kurt replied firmly. Blaine could feel Kurt’s eyes on him, but his eyes never left Tori’s.
“You promise?” Tori pushed and Blaine’s heart broke with the knowledge that his actions brought her such distress and that right now, at that moment, he could not supply the words of comfort she needed. He was both thankful and hopeful when Kurt spoke.
The walk back to their bedroom was long and silent. Blaine did not reach for Kurt. The pictures of their happy past made a mockery of their present. This time Blaine crossed the threshold first. When Kurt followed, Blaine already had the suitcase open on their bed, clothes haphazardly thrown inside.
“What are you doing?”
“I have to go.” Blaine’s voice was even, but just so, as he pulled a sweater over his head.
“Blaine, you can’t leave,” Kurt pressed, taking a tentative step toward the bed, near Blaine.
“I have to.” He was firm yet calm as he shut the suitcase. Suitcase in hand, he retrieved his coat and scarf from the closet. “We promised we wouldn’t.”
“I know,” Kurt muttered as Blaine walked past him toward the door. “Where will you go?” he asked Blaine’s back.
Blaine stopped and turned, his grip firm on the banister, “Oh, so now you’re concerned about me?” His temper was rising again. I have to go, he thought, picking up speed descending the stairs.
“Blaine, please. We have to talk about this.” Kurt stood breathless in the foyer, at the foot of the stairs watching Blaine slip on his shoes, grab his keys from the hutch and open the door
“No. We promised we wouldn’t and I can’t do this right now without breaking that promise. I won’t let you turn anything else into a lie tonight.”
The door shut and they both were alone.
* Long Island Railroad
- Current Mood: anxious