Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Some Day

For most people it would be strange to walk into a room knowing that everyone knows your life story. Everyone knows about Blaine Anderson, even though he usually wishes they didn't. He's married to someone who's quickly becoming a fashion icon – a moderately successful Broadway actor who's somehow become better known for what he wears leaving the theatre at the end of the night than the performance he puts on inside. Blaine's never seen so many style blogs pay so much attention to a man before, especially because they genuinely seem to like a lot of what Kurt ends up wearing. It's gotten him so much free publicity he's started to land bigger roles, and has even been approached to audition for TV shows, once it was established that he wasn't popular because he was one of those Train Wreck celebrities. Blaine still hasn't worked out how that ended up coming about, but he supposes all the friends in high places don't hurt. Kurt's biggest fans have always had a lot of influence. Kurt Hummel is an inspiration to kids who feel like they don't fit. When the world said it didn't have a place for him, Kurt made his own. Lately the media seems to have latched onto the idea that Kurt is some sort of living embodiment of the Gay American Dream: work hard, dream big, love glitter, and you can achieve anything.

People do not think this about Blaine Anderson. For Blaine they reserve looks of slightly uncomfortable acceptance and hushed reverence as they speak with him and try not to ask about decades old news stories they heard growing up. They don't see him as a successful adult with a passion for children's rights and an advocate for the adoption of "problem" children; to them he's still a little boy whose face still shows up in undying email forwards, that pray for the safe return of missing children years after the searches have stopped. Sometimes he feels like giving up and not going to any more fundraisers to make speeches about kids in need only to spend the evenings being whispered about behind napkins while he pretends not to hear:

"Oh my God, this must be so hard for him. He's so brave."

"I remember once when I ran off in a mall and my mother spent the next 2 weeks telling me I would become the next Blaine Anderson if I didn't stay in her line of sight at all times."

"You've heard about how he met his husband right? You have to wonder...obviously they're in love and I'm happy for them, but...how healthy do you think a relationship can be when it began in the middle of something like that?"

"Do you think he's really even gay? I know that's a terrible thing to say, but how can you not ask? Maybe it's just easier to pretend."

On some level, Blaine knows that the whispers that refuse to die are partially his fault. He married someone in the spotlight, and he doesn't shy away from it himself. He likes feeling like he's making a difference and helping others, so he willingly offers his name to things that need to be noticed. But sometimes he wishes helping others didn't keep him locked in the past as much as it does.

Sometimes he wishes he was more than just the seven-year-old who vanished, more than just the 16-year-old who came back. For as much as people like to speculate and horrify themselves thinking about those 9 years, Blaine wishes a few more understood that he's more than a sequence of events discussed in hushed voices so that small ears can't hear, and a childish face on the evening news.

Blaine Anderson is not a victim. Blaine Anderson is not a hero. Blaine Anderson is not a sociopath doing whatever it takes to keep his name in lights, a surprisingly popular theory. 

"Blaine is Blaine," Kurt shrugs once when an interviewer asks yet again about how the relationship works. "I accept him for who he is and not the person people talk about. He does the same for me. It's working out well for us."

Blaine Anderson is more than his circumstances. His life didn't stop when he ran away from Tom Brenner, that's when it started.

***

For Now

The first few days with his parents are confusing, disorienting, and completely terrifying. There are several times Blaine catches himself wishing that he had run away when he had the chance. He'd been expecting things to be hard, but he hadn't expected it to be painful as well. And it is painful talking to his parents, and trying to understand them and be close to them. He loves his mom and dad, and even though he's not used to the idea, he can tell that they certainly love him too, but somehow all that does is make everything more painful and confusing, even before they leave the hospital.

It shouldn't have been that big of a deal, but when Detective Carter pokes her head inside Blaine's room not long after his parents arrive and says that Stevie wants to say goodbye before he leaves to go back home, it doesn't take long for Blaine to realize why it was a mistake to let the Andersons find him. Stevie comes tearing into the room and carefully climbs up on the bed next to Blaine. His hands are wrapped with gauze and he has Horton stuffed underneath an arm.

"My mom and dad said you can't live with us because your mom and dad want you back too much to share with anyone else," Stevie says, talking like there's no one else in the room at all. Mr. and Mrs. Evans trail in after him, awkwardly introducing themselves to Blaine's parents. Their words are muffled over the sound of Stevie's chatter.

"We really wanted to thank you in person for everything you did," Mrs. Evans says, when she glances over to see Blaine watching them out of the corner of his eye. "I know you were already talking to Sam earlier but we needed to say it, too. Thank you so much for getting Stevie away from that man."

Blaine shrugs, feeling his face go bright red. He really wishes they didn't feel the need to mention where they've been all this time in front of his parents. It's not that he thinks his mom and dad don't know where he was and what was happening to him, but he really doesn't want to be anywhere near them when people are talking about it.

"Are those your parents?" Stevie asks, staring hard at his mother and father. Blaine confirms this.

"Are you sure you need him?" he asks them. "Because you've never had a teenager before but my mom and dad have one just like him. They already know what to do."

"Stevie!" Mr. Evans snorts, a little embarrassed but mostly just amused. "He's not a hamster, it doesn't work that way, you know that."

Stevie pouts a little, obviously annoyed at the way things are turning out before he tries again. At this rate Blaine would not be surprised to see him grow up to become a used car salesman.

"Do you want a trade?" he asks. "My sister Stacy is 6, she's not here right now because Sam's friend Quinn is looking after her until we get back to Ohio, but she's a good enough sister. You'd probably like her."

This gets him another rebuke from his parents and Blaine is trying not to laugh until his mother smiles sweetly at Stevie and answers,

"Thank you very much for your offer Steven, but don't you think you would miss her? Besides, you may not believe me, but a six-year-old sister is a very good thing to have. Blaine already has one, so we couldn't take away yours."

"What?" Blaine says, very quietly. He feels like someone has punched him. 

His mom looks at him and smiles a little nervously as she reaches out to hold his hand.

"We wanted to tell you as soon as possible," she says. "So you had time to get used to the idea? Her name is Cynthia. We're having a neighbour pick her up from school today, but she's going to be so excited to meet you. She's grown up hearing so many stories about you."

"I have a sister?" Blaine says, still trying to sort out what's being said to him. He doesn't know why this is upsetting to him, but it really, really is. Maybe it's because he never knew she existed but she's already so close to the age he was when he left. Maybe it's because she probably knows more about his life than he does. Maybe it's because he feels unnecessary now, like he's been replaced.

"Sisters aren't as good as brothers," Stevie says, consolingly, like this must be why Blaine looks so unnerved. "But I guess they aren't too bad. For girls."

"Stevie," Mrs. Evans says, glancing at the extremely tense family in the room with them. "I think we should go now. You remember what we talked about, right? You can give each other phone numbers so you can talk when Blaine's feeling a little better, but right now he has a lot of catching up to do with his family, okay? It's time to say goodbye."

Stevie pulls his mother's phone from her bag and fumbles with it with his bandaged hands before making a noise of frustration and handing it back again, "You do it, Mom. My hands are too slow."

He looks at Blaine expectantly and asks,

"What's your phone number?"

"I...I don't know," Blaine says, and he feels lost and disoriented all over again. "I don't remember."

His dad clears his throat a little and tells them the number as Mrs. Evans dutifully adds it to her contact list. Blaine grabs the piece of paper with Kurt's number scrawled across it.

"Da – " he starts before catching himself and correcting, "Tom threw my cell phone at a wall before we left Ohio, but if someone has a pen or something, I can write your number down next to this one."

Mr. Evans pulls a pen from his pocket and crosses the room to hand it to Blaine. Blaine takes it and very pointedly does not look at his parents as he writes down the numbers. He doesn't want to see the looks on their faces right now. The tension eases a little when his mom says, quietly,

"You're not too bad at writing with your other hand. Your grandfather was a little ambidextrous, too."

He's been feeling so displaced around them that just the idea that he's got something to connect him to his family still, after all this time, makes his eyes sting a little. 

"Okay Stevie," Mr. Evans says as he takes the pen back from Blaine. "Time to go."

Suddenly Stevie is rising up on the bed and wrapping his arms around Blaine's neck, hugging tightly. It's the first time Stevie's ever willingly let himself get so close when he's not trying to hide away from someone. Blaine relaxes a little as he lets himself hug back. Stevie at least will be alright. It's nice to know that's one thing that doesn't feel completely wrong in this.

Stevie holds out Horton when he pulls away.

"You take him," he says. "He's yours."

"Thanks," Blaine says faintly, setting Horton down on the table next to the phone numbers as he waves goodbye to Stevie and his parents. He wishes they weren't going. It's awkward when they're in here, but at least he doesn't have to wallow in all the ways he's not what his parents wanted to find when there's someone else in the room. For a few minutes after the door closes it's just quiet, but then he notices that his mom isn't holding his hand anymore and he looks up.

She's holding onto one of his dad's hands with both of hers and she's looking at him with so much concern it scares Blaine a little. For a second he wonders if they're going to tell him that they've changed their minds and this won't work, but then his eyes snap to his father when he chokes out,

"You kept that?"

His dad looks the way Blaine felt a few minutes ago when he found out he was a brother, so he follows where his dad is looking and sees Horton. He winces a little, because the more he thinks about it, the more he knows the toy could never have come from his parents it was just one more thing Tom used to keep him in line.

"I..." he starts, faltering a little because it's obvious that for whatever reason just looking at the stupid thing is killing his dad. "I guess Stevie took it when we left, because he thought I wanted it. I always thought it was something you bought for me before he took me away."

His dad looks at him, so startled that somehow Blaine feels like he's the one who should be jumping.

"He used to tell me that you all knew each other," Blaine stammers. "And I can sort of remember asking you for it, and then Tom helping me get it because he said that was what you wanted. Which was obviously the biggest lie and I was really stupid for believing him. I...I don't know. Maybe I should just leave it here."

"No," says his mother, abruptly. "Bring it with you. I was always so scared while you were gone that you were alone in the dark and more scared than I was. I like that you had something that helped you remember your family."

There's another knock on the door and Detective Warren comes back in. Blaine fights back the sudden desire he feels to go live with her if she'll have him. He thinks it would be much easier than any of his other options at the moment.

"Sorry to interrupt," she says. "I just wanted to let you know that we're going to start getting ready for the rest of you to leave as well. We're arranging an alternative route out of the hospital for you. The news has gotten a hold of the story and we don't want to throw you out right into the middle of a swarm of camera crews when you leave."

Blaine hadn't been expecting to be leaving the safety of the hospital so soon. He doesn't think he's ready to leave the distractions of all the people coming in and out, acting as buffers between him and these two people who he doesn't know how to talk to without hurting. He doesn't want to leave Detective Warren, or he wishes he was going back with Mr. Hummel. Anything to get him away from all this. And now he has another problem that he has no idea how to fix without making the pain in his parents' eyes worse.

"Detective Warren?" He asks, forcing the words out. "I really need to talk to you about something."

"What is it?" She asks.

Blaine just looks down, running his hand nervously across his cast.

"I sort of need to talk to you about something," he says.

"I see," she says before calmly addressing his mother and father. "That probably works better anyhow. My partner is waiting outside to explain the most discreet way to get to your car, and to give some contact information for the Westerville police department. They'll need to meet with Blaine at least a couple more times to go over everything that's happened while he's been away."

"You're not going to be the one talking to me?" Blaine asks, fear gripping him so tightly he stops registering the hurt looks on his parents' faces as he tries to push them away. Blaine trusts Detective Warren, he feels like he can handle the questions when she's the one asking them. He doesn't know if he can deal with talking to someone new.

Detective Warren is wearing her professional smile again, like she knows exactly what he's worried about and has prepared herself for this part.

"Your case is complicated, Blaine," she says. "What happened to you occurred over several jurisdictions, not just here. I assure you, we are all fully committed to working together on this to make sure Brenner goes to jail, but there's going to be a lot of officers involved, trying to keep everything straight."

"How many people will interview me?" Blaine asks, weakly.

"I imagine they'll try to keep the number down to one or two officers," she says. "It'll be less confusing that way. Likely it's going to be someone from Westerville, since that's where you live."

She pauses briefly, obviously debating how much she should tell him before continuing.

"I have put in a request that I continue to be your contact point, for the interviews if nothing else, but we're pretty far from your home right now. I don't know if it will be approved."

"But you asked?" Blaine says. 

"If they give me the go ahead I would be more than happy to find a nice hotel in Westerville to hole up in for a few days."

"Thank you," Blaine says, looking awkwardly at his parents when he calms down enough to register that they haven't even moved yet. Fortunately Warren is on top of that, too.

"Mr. and Mrs. Anderson?" she says. "My partner is just outside in the hallway if you wanted to speak with him."

They leave reluctantly, like they're afraid Blaine will disappear the second they take their eyes off him. As soon as the door shuts Blaine feels himself wilt. He brings a hand up to his eyes and notices he's started shaking a little again.

"Blaine?" Detective Warren questions. "You alright?"

"Not yet, I don't think," he manages. "Thank you. I needed to ask..."

His throat closes up a little and he has to clear it before he tries again.

"It's Jason and Diane, right?"

Detective Warren looks confused for a second and then horrified when she realizes what he's asking.

"Yeah," Blaine says. "That's why I didn't want them in here when I asked. I mean, I was pretty sure, but then they introduced themselves to the Evanses and I couldn't quite make out what they were saying. I was just scared I was wrong. I never would have been able to look at them again if I screwed it up."

"No," Detective Warren says. "You're right. Jason and Diane Anderson." 

"Still think I can do this?" Blaine asks, smiling at her sarcastically.

She refuses to rise to the bait and just looks at him dead serious as she says,

"Of course, but I never said it would be easy."

***

Despite how easily he fell into looking after Stevie when they were locked up in a bedroom together, Blaine doesn't have much experience around kids. He supposes if his little sister were scared or hurt or alone and in trouble, he could probably look after her too, but Cynthia is just a regular, slightly hyperactive kid. 

It's getting late in the afternoon when they pull up to a house in a nicer Westerville neighbourhood. Blaine thinks there are parts of the place that seem familiar. He looks at the tree in the front yard and has a brief flash of a memory of climbing around in its branches, but it's a young tree, still growing fast, and the branches he remembers are too high off the ground to clamber onto anymore. The house is impressive – comfortably sized and probably very expensive, Blaine realizes, when he looks at the large, immaculately landscaped yard, sunny bay windows on the main floor, and sliding doors leading out onto a balcony on the second. He looks at it hard from the backseat and tries to remember. Small details leap out at him, flashes of some sort of sense memory as he looks at the balcony and remembers the heat on his back as he played on it in the summer, or the smell of the lawn after his dad had taken out the mower.

"It's the same house, isn't it?" he finally says, sensing his parents watching him. He's been silent for most of the trip, speaking only when they ask him a question and answering in as few words as possible. He's not trying to be rude, he's just in so far over his head he's not sure what he should be saying to these people. He wishes he knew how to talk to them but there just aren't words to articulate the feelings he has inside fighting to make their way out. At one point his mother reaches into the backseat and puts her hand on his knee, squeezing tightly. He hesitantly moves away after a few moments, taking her hand into his own before she can pull away. He feels stupid, but there's something about being able to touch her again, to watch her thumb as it runs up and down the back of his hand, that makes his heart race. It makes everything real, like proof that this is really happening and they aren't another dream.

Now his mother pulls away to point at one of the second-story windows.

"Same house. That's your room right there," she says and then his dad is opening his door and climbing out of the car saying,

"It looks like we've already got company. I'll park later."

Blaine doesn't know what he's talking about at first, but then he notices the door to the house next door hanging open and a couple people looking hesitantly out. A small girl is tearing down the steps and running towards him. Her hair is pulled up into a messy ponytail. It's dark and curly, chaotic like his own. Like their mother's, he realizes, but doesn't have time to think about it before there's a small head peering into the backseat, mouth going a mile a minute, like an over-excitable, yappy miniature poodle.

"Is he here? Is that him? Daddy make him come out so I can see?" she's saying and her voice is tiny and enormous all at once, piercing through Blaine's raw nerves. Blaine thinks he might want to stay in the car until she goes away, in case she tries to attack him or something.

"She's very excited about this," his mother says, semi-apologetically but mostly just fondly. "She's wanted to see you her whole life. For a while there you were almost sacred to her."

"Like Jesus?" Blaine asks absently, still looking at the girl dancing around her father's legs, making no move to get out of the car.

"Sacred to a kid," his mother corrects. "More like Santa or Willy Wonka."

"Is she going to hurt me if I don't have presents or candy?" Blaine asks, forgetting for a moment that he doesn't know her well enough to make fun of her daughter, but she just laughs.

"I doubt it," she says. "I think your appeal is mainly as a brother. Of course, I'm not entirely sure what she thinks brothers can do, so if you can't fly or control things with your mind, she may be disappointed."

Blaine smiles at her, pleasantly surprised at how easily she jokes back, and the look on her face makes him think that she's just as pleased with him, but then his sister starts knocking on the door. Or maybe hammering is a better way of putting it, and as his dad leaps forward to save the car his mother shakes her head in exasperation and says,

"We'd better get out before she's stuck paying auto body bills from her allowance until she goes to college."

Blaine takes a breath and slowly crawls out of the car after his parents. The drive has made him stiff and his sides are aching through the pain medication. The little girl – his sister – is now dancing circles around him as well.

"Are you my brother?" she asks, hopping from one foot to another as she cranes her neck unnecessarily to get a better look at his face. "You're Blaine, right? Why don't you look like your pictures? Is it because you've been gone for 60 years? You're really old, right? Like, you're really older than me, but we're still brother and sister. Why are you so old? What happened to your arm? Did the bad man break it? Mom and Dad always say you got taken away by a bad man and if a bad man ever takes me I need to kick and scream and even bite if I have to, because they don't want the bad men to get me. Did you bite anyone? You should have bit someone. People put you back when there's biting. My cat bites sometimes, too. Do you like cats? I love cats, especially my cat. Her name is Mrs. Frisby and she's the best cat in the world, even if she kicks the litter out of the box sometimes."

Blaine mentally amends his assessment of "slightly hyperactive" to just "hyperactive" as his little sister chatters on, not particularly caring if she hears his answers or not. He feels nervous standing out on the sidewalk like this. From their house, the neighbours Cynthia had been staying with are watching uncertainly, like they don't know if they should come say hello or not. Clearly they're conflicted about what the proper etiquette is in this kind of situation. Even worse is the crawling feeling running along the back of his neck, like there are people watching him just out of eyesight – hiding behind curtains and peeking out from bedroom windows. He feels like he's on display and as much as he wants to go inside and hide, he can't just go into the house without some sort of invitation. It's not his home anymore; it's not his to walk into.

Cynthia breaks the spell when she pulls demandingly on Blaine's good hand and says,

"Do you want to go to the park with me?"

"Right now?" Blaine asks.

"Trevor from school says that his big brother takes him to the park and that's all he's good for," she says. "You don't even do that, and I asked Mom why did I even need a brother if he's not going to take me to the park but she said you would when you came home."

She looks at him pointedly.

"You're here now."

"Blaine's been very sick, sweetie," his dad says, finally deciding Cynthia's not going to be calming down any time soon and stepping in to start deflecting her energy away from Blaine, whose head feels like it's starting to spin trying to keep up with her. "He's very tired and he's very sore."

He looks at Blaine cautiously, like he's seeking out confirmation.

"I think maybe your brother would just like to take the pills the doctor gave him and sleep for a while?"

"Is that okay?" Blaine asks, because slipping off into a drug-induced stupor sounds five different kinds of awesome right now.

"And then the park?" Cynthia asks. 

Apparently this is a big deal because when her mother says, "Maybe not right away, Cynthia. Soon," Cynthia's face grows dark and she mutters, "a real brother would take me now."

His mom rolls her eyes and starts to herd Cynthia into the house, gently reaching out to Blaine and pushing on his shoulder blades, urging him to come with them. He wonders if it's creepy that a very large part of him wants her to never stop touching him like that. He remembers that Carole is like this too, always touching Kurt and Finn almost unconsciously, and how even Kurt will relax into her touch after a while. Blaine supposes that maybe it's a mother thing.

Blaine registers the interior of the house in disjointed fragments. There's an entryway and living room, a hallway and a door that for some reason he immediately knows leads to a study. There's a stairway lined with pictures he doesn't bother looking at, and another hallway. Blaine hears the sound of a tap running in the kitchen somewhere beneath him, and then his mother is opening the door to a bedroom. He remembers this space – more than he thought he would. The bed still is one for a small child, a twin mattress and a low frame. Blaine can see the marks in the wood that bear the evidence of a removed guardrail. He wonders if he was still there when it was taken off, if he was prone to falling out of the bed up until the time he was taken.

His mother is talking, saying something in an apologetic voice about how the place is still so child-oriented.

"It didn't feel right to move any of it out without you here," she says. "We can work through it when you're feeling a little better."
"I'm sort of tired," Blaine admits and there's movement in the doorway and his dad is coming in with a glass of water and a pill bottle from the hospital, some clothes tucked under his arm.

"They told us you were in pretty rough shape the last few weeks with him," he seems as reluctant to say Tom's name as Blaine is. No one really wants the idea of him inside the house. "We were expecting that you'd want to sleep it off a little."

He holds out the water and pain medication, opening the bottle and shaking out a pill when he looks again at Blaine's immobile arm. He hands Blaine the clothes with an apologetic expression.

"I don't know if these will fit too well," he admits. "They're some old pyjamas of mine, but they should give you some room to manoeuvre with that cast, and there's not really much else for you to wear. We'll have to go shopping with you as soon as you're up to it."

Blaine smiles weakly at him, feeling like he's joining a marathon five hours after the starting gun, and stands there a little awkwardly before asking where the bathroom is. He's too tired to even feel very guilty about how sad his mother looks as she tells him the way. He's asleep almost as soon as his head touches the pillow.

***

His dad drags him out shopping right away, as promised, and it's a new and mortifying experience for Blaine to walk into a store and have literally everyone there stop what they are doing and try to get a better look at him. Even people who don't pay attention to the news get in on it, because everyone else is acting like he's famous. One woman goes takes a picture of him with her cell phone until her friend frantically pulls her hand back down and whispers urgently into her ear. They leave shortly after.

"Idiots," his dad mutters as he watches them go.

"How can they even tell who I am?" Blaine wonders a little later when they're headed into yet another store. "It's not like they have a new picture of me."

"Unfortunately they do," his dad says, sounding frustrated. "I guess someone from that last high school you were at has a blog or something, and he stole a picture of you off of someone's Facebook account. The press got it from there."

"Oh," Blaine says. "That kid. He's an asshole. I don't know why everyone cares so much."

"Kids don't tend to come back when they've been missing as long as you have, and with the other little boy involved, people are making a big deal of things. You got him back to his family. It makes you a hero."

About an hour and a half later Blaine wants to scream and go hide in the corner and he can tell his dad is feeling the same way. He doesn't think he'll ever be able to get used to people's shell-shocked expressions as they recognize him and start talking to each other about him like he's not there.

"One more store," his dad promises. "Anything we don't have yet we can figure out later."

They're about to enter the store when Blaine hears someone calling his name.

"Just ignore them," his dad says softly, pressing on his back so he doesn't slow down. "They'll get the idea and leave you alone if you don't acknowledge them."

Blaine thinks that sounds like an excellent idea and is taking his father's advice when he hears the voice call out again and suddenly something about it strikes him as familiar.

"Hang on," he says, and cautiously turns around.

It takes him a minute to place them without their uniforms on but as soon as he does he looks around to see if Kurt is somewhere close by.

"Hey," he says, nodding at trio as they excitedly make their way over.

"I'm glad you stopped," David says, smiling warmly. "Thad noticed you from the other side of the food court and we wanted to see how you were doing. Kurt's been going out of his mind since you left."

He glances at Blaine's dad and puts his hand out in greeting.

"I'm David," he says as he gestures at the other two. "These are my friends Wes and Thad."

"I'm Blaine's father," his dad says. "Which I'm guessing you already know."

"David, Wes, and Thad go to Dalton Academy," Blaine explains. "One of my friends from my last high school, Kurt Hummel – you met his dad in Morgantown? He transferred to Dalton and I came to Westerville a few times to visit him."

His dad's eyes rapidly shift as he puts the pieces together. Blaine knows that he's been told almost everything that the police know about how he got away, so the fact that Tom ran because Blaine went back to Westerville is nothing new. He still looks a little sick though, Blaine isn't sure why.

"Dalton Academy?" he says, looking at Blaine a little stupidly.

"You know it?" Blaine asks, and his dad looks tired again as he runs his hand over his face.

"Your mother's dad went there," he says. "He helped us buy a home in Westerville specifically so that he could arrange for you to go there. He didn't take it very well when we had to tell him we wanted to put you through public school instead."

"What's wrong with Dalton?" Blaine asks, choosing to focus on that rather than how fucking close he'd gotten to his family without even knowing.

"Your grandfather practically had to have an arranged marriage he was so bad around women," his dad grins, fondly. "He was absolutely useless around them until your mother came along. We wanted to do you a favour and give you the opportunity to grow up without being terrified of the opposite sex."

Blaine tries to ignore the queasy sensation stirring up inside of him as Thad reassuringly tells his father,

"Oh no, Mr. Anderson, Dalton has taken great strides to ensure they don't have to arrange marriages for their students anymore. We have a sister academy and they give us classes and everything."

He sounds suspiciously earnest and, frankly, dorky, in that oddly specific way that only seems to happen when the Warblers are directly involved. Blaine scans the bags the three are holding for a second before blurting out,

"Are those things filled with ties?"

"There was a sale on," Wes says, defensively. "Dalton only replaces the uniforms when a student grows out of them, the ties never get switched out. The Warblers can't perform with faded ties, Blaine."

"Right," Blaine says, incredulously. "Of course not."

"What was that about?" his dad asks a few minutes later after the boys have moved on, promising to tell Kurt they'd run into him.

"It's a show choir thing," Blaine says, shrugging. "Some schools just really get into it."

"I have trouble picturing that Burt Hummel guy raising a kid so worried about his ties," his dad says, and he's obviously trying to make a joke, but it makes Blaine want to cry a little. It's obvious that his parents have decided he's going to be straight without bothering to ask. He's not sure if that's a bad sign or not.

"He cares about the competition, too," Blaine manages. "He just doesn't talk like the queen of England or a 1950s housewife when he gets worked up about it."

He chooses not to mention that Kurt gets worked up about his ties whether show choirs are involved or not, or of course that Blaine has made out with him and enjoyed himself thoroughly while doing so. That little piece of information may not be coming up in conversation until a few years after he's moved out, and since he's making up for lost time at the moment, he's not looking to do that until his mid 20s. Until then he'll just try not to hear when his parents say something potentially politically incorrect and hide Kurt under his bed or quasi-ironically in his closet if his parents walk in on them.

"You know," his dad says, as they start looking through different jeans. Blaine puts one back in the pile because he remembers Kurt saying something unflattering about the label one time, and it can't hurt to try to stay on Kurt's good side, fashion-wise. "I seem to remember that the oldest Evans boy was part of a glee club, too. One of the detectives mentioned that it was how you two knew each other. Were you in the club at McKinley?"

"No," Blaine says, recoiling at the idea of being thrown into the middle of the semi-incestuous insanity that is New Directions. "But Kurt was a part of it, and I hung out with him a lot, so I got to know most of them. I don't really sing."

"Hmmm," his dad sounds like he's thinking about something else before he says, "So, you and this Kurt guy spent a lot of time with each other?"

Blaine shifts uncomfortably.

"I didn't have a lot of friends before," he says, because even though he's not thrilled to tell his parents about how lame he is, it's better than them getting too interested in Kurt at this point. "His dad had just had a heart attack and I guess he liked me alright because he started talking to me about it. It was nice to have someone around. I never joined their club but I liked them. It kept me away from T – from the house."

His dad nods slowly. They're barely pretending to look at clothes now, but they're holding a stack each by this point and one of the braver store employees awkwardly approaches and asks if they need a fitting room as she desperately tries not to gawk at Blaine.

Blaine's almost forgotten the entire conversation, but later on when they're getting back in to the car with all the things they bought, his dad says,

"You should invite him over sometime."

"Who?" Blaine asks.

"Kurt," says his dad. "The boy you were friends with. Maybe even his whole family, if you want. The way I understood it is that they all liked you pretty well, and even wanted you to move in with them at one point. It's good that you had people trying to look out for you, and if you made some genuine friendships it doesn't seem right that you should have to throw them away because you've got your old life back."

He's looking at Blaine earnestly now, and Blaine fully recognizes it's pathetic on his part, but his dad is staring at him so hard it makes him nervous. He feels like his dad is fishing for more about him and Kurt, like he's baiting a trap and waiting for Blaine to get caught. He forces down his jittery nerves and shoots his dad a tight smile instead.

"Thanks," he says. "Maybe I'll do that sometime."

He'll just make sure that he does it when neither parent is with him. They can't stick so close to him forever, after all.

***

The next day he goes down to the police station to answer some more questions. He's not looking forward to it much, but he's relieved when his mom tells him that Detective Warren got approval on her request to carry on with the investigation. There will be other cops there, but she'll be the one handling the questions. Then his mom mentions that Stevie and his family will be there as well, which is confusing to Blaine, because Lima has a police station of its own.

"Stevie's been asking about you," his mother says, her eyes getting a little sad. "Mrs. Evans called us up and asked if it would be okay if they took him in so he could see you. They're going to be in the area anyhow and he's been having some pretty rough nights the past few days. He's been having a lot of nightmares and is pretty fixated on you. They were hoping seeing you might help."

Blaine knows how Stevie feels. The first couple of times sleeping back at his house hadn't been a problem, he was so tired and so heavily medicated, but now that he's feeling better it's all different. His nightmares are worse than they'd ever been with Tom, more like full-fledged flashbacks than anything else, and then when he wakes up, sweating and shaking and crying, he feels sick, looking at the toys and memories of a little boy who might as well be dead. Nothing in the room has any meaning to him, and he knows that it should, that he should remember the things around him. But there's nothing comforting in the entire room, just broken fragments of a life that's gone forever. He's given up trying to go to sleep again after the dreams now, and just shuts his eyes to the dead memories around him as he listens to the cat clawing on the other side of the door.

There are reporters waiting at the station when they get there, calling his name and shouting to try and get their attention. He hears Tom's name more than once, and even "sex" a few times. Blaine wants the ground to open up beneath him. Every single person yelling at him knows what he was doing when he was with Tom, and they all want him to talk about it so they can broadcast the details to every home in the country. If they found actual footage of what happened and played it on primetime, Blaine doubts he could be any more humiliated. His father looks at the reporters and sighs, glancing at Blaine.

"Sorry," he says. "I knew there would be a few people here, but I wasn't expecting so many. We'd sent out a statement asking for privacy, but..."

He trails off a little helplessly. Blaine feels guilty that things are so hard, but he doesn't know why. It's not like he asked to get kidnapped because he wanted the extra attention. Detective Warren must have been waiting for them inside the building, because suddenly Blaine can see her wading through the reporters as she makes her way to the car, an entourage of officers around her holding back the sea of microphones and cameras. He supposes he should be grateful, but holy shit, there are a lot of uniformed officers coming his direction. He just focuses his gaze on the ground and tries not to think about anything.

Detective Warren looks at him oddly when he doesn't make any eye contact, but she doesn't dwell on it, instead leading the way into the building as quickly as possible. His mother keeps her arm across his shoulders the entire way, but his dad is held up by several of the reporters just by the doors. Blaine looks back, uncertain if they should wait for him.

"Just keep going," his mother urges. "Your dad and I talked about it earlier and we decided if the reporters were getting invasive that we'd make a statement. We haven't released anything to the media at all yet, so we're hoping that will calm them down a little."

Blaine looks at his father talking to the reporters.

"'Make a statement'?" he repeats. "You were planning for this?"

"We've had a lot of dealings with the media over the years," his mom says. "Nothing quite this big, but we've tried to keep your case as visible as possible, in case it helped someone recognize you. The problem is when you've been featured on so many programs and news segments, people start to think you owe them something. If we don't give them something now they'll only make it harder for you to settle back in. The last thing we want is them coming to our house with telescopic lenses."

Blaine tenses as he tries not to panic over what she's saying, but fortunately he's distracted by Stevie shouting out his name and running over to him to wrap his arms around his waist in an enthusiastic hug. Again Blaine is shocked that Stevie is suddenly so willing to initiate contact, but as he hugs Stevie back he supposes that maybe little kids are better at forgetting bad things. He rethinks this as soon as he looks up to see Mr. and Mrs. Evans walking up to join them. They look even more exhausted than when Blaine saw them in the hospital. He listens for a moment to their conversation with his mother.

"It's really too bad that you had to drive out all this way," his mother is saying to Mr. Evans. "I know how tired you must be, with Stevie having so much trouble at night and you trying to learn a new job."

Blaine hadn't been aware the Mr. Evans had found work again, but he's glad to hear it. He knows that for now they're staying at the Fabray house, which is apparently very big and comfortable, but it must be kind of weird.

"It would have had to happen sooner or later," Mr. Evans says. "We've been referred to a psychologist who specializes in helping children dealing with sexual trauma. She's based out of Westerville; we're on our way to Stevie's first appointment once we leave here."

Blaine turns away from them in favour of crouching down to talk to Stevie. He'd rather ignore the inevitable moment when his mother asks for a name. She's taken to looking at him strangely, whenever she thinks something about him is a little off. Which is all the time, because apparently Blaine is as unstable as a homemade rocket launcher. He might as well spend the little time that he has talking to the one person who thinks he's completely normal.

"All of Sam's friends keep coming to Quinn's house for really stupid reasons," Stevie says, in a tone that suggests he's tattling. To Blaine of all people. "They act like they go to her house all the time, but I can tell that they don't. They just want to look at me."

"They were worried about you," Blaine says.

"I don't even know them," Stevie says.

"It's pretty annoying," Blaine admits, because he's had his fair share of neighbours and relatives stopping by unexpectedly, too. It's nice that his father's parents and the lady across the street who used to babysit him want to stop by and see him for themselves, but Blaine doesn't know them and he doesn't care if they need to see proof. He just wants to be left alone.

"Kurt has come by three times," Stevie says, his voice accusing, and Blaine suddenly understands why Stevie is taking this up with him. "I've barely been back long enough for him to come over three times. He doesn't even care about me at all. He keeps asking about you."

"That's not fair," Blaine says, hoping to god his mother isn't listening right now. "I bet he was really worried about you."

Stevie shrugs, clearly unconvinced.

"He was worried about me, but the person he wants to talk to is you. You should call him so he leaves me alone."

Someone behind him clears their throat. Blaine whips around, or at least he tries to whip around before almost falling over. Between the cast and the sore ribs, he's not too good at sudden movement. Fortunately, the person who is currently helping him right himself, and who made the noise in the first place, is only Detective Warren.

"Sorry," she says. "I just wanted to tell you that we've set up a room for you to talk in. It's a conference room, so nothing like the bare light bulb and folding chairs you see in the movies. I thought you might like to talk in there, so we can get away from all the commotion."

Blaine glances out the door again. His father is just walking in, but the camera crews are still there, taking pictures through the glass.

"A conference room would be good," he manages. 

***

It's only a short visit in the end, as the Evanses have to meet their doctor later in the morning. The rest of the day is spent with Detective Warren as she interviews him about quite literally everything that's happened to him in the last nine years. At least, everything that he can remember. He'd been worried about how hard it would be to talk to her, but in the end he finds he's completely numb, just like he had been in the hospital, as he tells her what he remembers about living with Tom, like the first time they had sex, or how many times he remembers giving blowjobs to get out of trouble, or how Tom got him used to fooling around with him by refusing to feed him until he did as he was told. He's surprised he's not more upset by any of it, but the fact is it's more embarrassing than anything else. At least for him.

Blaine hadn't wanted his parents in the room with him while he talked, and Detective Warren made it very clear that it was his decision if they stayed and listened or not, but the truth is that it wasn't really up to him at all. He could tell his mom and dad that he doesn't want them to be a part of this, that if they need to know what happened they can listen from another room or read a statement afterwards, but they look like they want to be in the room with him, hopeful and at the same time unwilling to say anything out loud, like they want it to be his choice, even though there's only one right choice to make. 

The thought of disappointing them is terrifying to him. He knows logically that they would never get rid of him at this point, not after they've done so much to get him back, but he's not used to people who are willing to accept him on his own terms. He needs to make them happy, even if that means letting them stay and hurting them more.

And it does hurt them to listen, so much so that Blaine ends up having to pull his hand away from his mother's when he can't ignore how much she's shaking, and he has to pretend he doesn't hear his father leave more than once when he's telling Detective Warren what he remembers. He doesn't look at either one of them even once, and keeps his eyes fixed on Warren or his own hands as they tap out patterns and beats onto the table in front of him.

The only time he makes them leave, quietly asking if they could leave him alone with the officers for a while as he stares hard at the table, is the only time the numbness goes away and he starts to feel icy fingers of panic crawling up inside of him. It's after the second officer who has been sitting in on the questioning with Warren asks why he never went to the police, when he must have had countless opportunities over the years.

"Why did you send them away?" Detective Warren asks, glancing warily at the other officer, like she doesn't know if she wants an answer.

"I'm not looking at them but I can tell what they're doing," he says. "It's pretty obvious how they're taking this. I don't want them next to me for this part."

"Why didn't you go to the police, Blaine?" she asks, her voice getting a little harder, angry but not at him.

"He didn't do it on purpose," Blaine says, absently wondering why he's defending Tom at all. "I mean, he knew what he was doing, but I don't think he had any sort of big plan to make me too scared to ask for help, I was just stupid. Sometimes kids are dumb. They think they know things but they don't."

"What did he do?"

"He didn't mean for it to get out of hand like it did," Blaine says, feeling his own control slip as he tries to keep the pleading note out of his voice. "We left right after it happened, and he always told me he never did it to scare me."

Detective Warren tries to wait for him to get around to saying what he needs to say, but he can tell she wants to get up and shake it out of him a little, so he tries to make his thoughts come out in order.

"Sometimes he had trouble making the rent."

Blaine is the one shaking now as he finally stops talking. His vision is a little blurry and Detective Warren's mouth is a thin line of barely contained fury. He's never seen her this angry before, but the way she's looking at him he almost thinks it's his response more than the story that's getting to her.

"Okay Blaine," she finally manages. "I think we need to take a break for a little while, and give you a chance to calm down, okay? Was that everything you needed to tell me right now?"

He nods, as he rubs his good hand over his eyes. She pats him on the shoulder as she walks out of the room. A few moments later the door opens again and his parents are back. His mom doesn't ask any questions, she just gently reaches over and pulls his head onto her shoulder as she wraps her arms around him. He can feel his dad's hand carding through his hair, and if he cries a little before Detective Warren comes back and he starts talking again, no one makes a big deal about it.

***

Channel surfing has become Blaine's primary means of entertainment. He remembers when the problem with daytime television used to be that every show was boring and wishes he didn't have to learn the hard way why boring isn't always bad.

"A touching reunion earlier this week between kidnapping victims Steven Evans and Blaine Anderson," Newscaster after newscaster drone on like having vague details about one night of his life makes them qualified experts on everything worth knowing about him as they flash the pictures of Stevie hugging him at the station, and animatedly talking to him as he crouches down and listens with a serious expression on his face.

"You shouldn't have looked so adorable," his mother comments at one point, walking into the living room to see the picture as it flashes on the screen introducing the news on the hour for what has to be the fifth time that morning. "They're going to keep running those shots until Stevie graduates."

"Maybe I should have slapped him instead," Blaine mutters and he'd feel guiltier about saying it but his mother is laughing so it can't be such a terrible thing to say out loud, although he's starting to understand where he gets his sense of humour now. 

He knows he should turn off the TV and talk to her, that she and his dad have taken time off from work to help him get used to the idea of being back here, but he doesn't know how to talk to them, and watching mindless television is easier than awkward silences or listening to them make plans for tutors to catch him up in school when they're not arguing about where he should be enrolled in the fall. They always make sure to ask him what he wants or thinks would be best, but Blaine's not used to having opinions that get listened to and is too nervous to say anything beyond, "Whatever you want," or "That sounds good," even though he thinks public school sounds terrible. Everywhere without Kurt sounds terrible, but he can't tell them that.

He doesn't want Kurt to be a part of his life here, even though he knows it's stupid. But Kurt's not afraid to be himself. He's too proud and too stubborn to try and hide who he is, and Blaine doesn't know how his parents will respond to that. He's terrified of what will happen if he sees them looking at Kurt in disgust, or if they start to treat him differently after they see him with Kurt. He's scared that they'll be able to tell, so he just nods his head and says, "Maybe later", we they ask him about phoning the friend whose number he took with him from the hospital until they get distracted and forget. And he watches TV.

"So what are you saying? You think this was part of a big plan? Like a conspiracy? 'A week with my son for a roof over our heads'?"

"Don't put words in my mouth, of course it's nothing like that. I'm only saying that I think it's very suspicious that a family that claims to be so full of love and respect for each other would be so quick to cash in on the horrific experience a little boy has gone through."

"How are they cashing in on anything? The man lost his job, lost his house, and lost his son. When people found out about what he was going through of course they tried to help him! So he has a job now because of this. So what? So local companies have stepped up to help him get back their old house. So what? That's a sign of society's humanity, not one man's agenda to profit from a pedophile."

"Fine, you think what you want to, that's your decision. Your version is much better than mine. For all our sakes, I hope you're right."

Blaine hits mute, but it doesn't make the women any less offensive or grating. He never knew there were so many round table discussion-based women's talk shows on TV. He never knew there was a maximum IQ limit for the job, either. He flops over on the couch and pushes his face into the soft end pillow. After a few minutes four tiny feet carefully make their way across his back. They make his sides hurt so he rolls over and tries to throw Mrs. Frisby off. His dad said the name was Cynthia's idea. Blaine asked if anyone bothered to remind Cynthia that Mrs. Frisby was a mouse and her namesake would eat her if they ever met in reality, but apparently his sister was adamant, no matter how twisted and ridiculous the implications, so Blaine tries not to let himself think about it too much. Mrs. Frisby seems fine with it, anyhow. She seems fine with anything so long as she is fed and has a warm place to sleep. Blaine's pretty sure that pathological need for warmth is why he can't get away from her, since some days his ribs hurt so much they feel like they're burning him from the inside. He finally manages to roll her off and turns the sound back on the TV. He channel surfs and tries to stay awake.

"You can shout Stockholm Syndrome until your face turns blue. The fact remains that this guy – for whatever reason – didn't feel the need to go home once the entire nine years he was away. Not once. Maybe he liked it with his new dad – we all know the guy gave him whatever he wanted to convince him to stay there. Some people are just inherently selfish, and who knows? Maybe this guy just liked what was happening to him."

"'This guy' was a child when he was taken. I don't think it's right to say – "

"Yes! He was a child, but he's not now, so why was he still there? Why wouldn't he try to leave if he didn't like what was happening and all the attention he was receiving? People are selfish. It's just the way things are. There's no other way to describe a runaway teenager who made countless trips to his own hometown without saying boo to his heartsick parents, who have been waiting for years for the opportunity to get their son back home and know that he was alive and well. Let's face it, after nine years they probably would have been thankful to get him in a body bag – "

"Jesus, Blaine," his father's voice cuts through the television's noise and makes Blaine jump. "Why are you watching this crap?"

Blaine sits up stiffly and rubs his eyes.

"Sorry," he says, only sort of lying. "I think I was sleeping with my eyes open or something. I'm pretty sure I do that sometimes."

He knows he does, both Kurt and Tom have told him, but he's not about to mention either name to his father. Luckily his dad just smiles as he turns off the TV.

"I'm not surprised. You get that from my side of the family. It used to give your mother nightmares."

"It's probably really creepy," Blaine agrees, hand going to his side involuntarily when the pain spikes as he straightens his spine. His dad looks at him worriedly.

"It's probably not good for your side to fall asleep on the couch like that," he says, looking at his watch. "And it's getting late anyhow. Why don't you just head up to bed? You look exhausted."

"Yeah, I don't think I've caught up yet," Blaine says. "Thanks. Goodnight."

He almost says, "Goodnight, Dad" but changes his mind at the last second. Things are getting less awkward the longer he's back with them, but some things don't come so easily. Tom was so fixated on being called Dad, it seems wrong to call his real father that. Everything is twisted on its head now that he's home again. He's pretty certain most teenagers don't feel strange acknowledging that their parents are their parents, and they aren't scared of their bedrooms and even more scared to admit it, either.

Blaine hates his bedroom. Everywhere he looks he sees ghosts. For now they don't seem connected to him – the memories all belong to someone else, but he knows that if he lets himself look through the closet or in the dresser, it will all start to come out. He'll start to find himself again and the idea is terrifying. Blaine knows who he is right now, even if that person is broken and dirty and useless. He never wants to meet the boy who used to be in his place, before everything went wrong and was destroyed, but at the same time he doesn't want his mom and dad to know that they won't be getting their old son back when they sort through his things, either. He's pretty sure he loves both of them, and he doesn't want to let them know they'll never find what they lost. So he pretends there's nothing wrong, and smiles at them and nods his head when his mother says they need to go through his room soon, or when his dad asks if he's sleeping alright when he walks into the kitchen each morning looking worse than he had the night before.

In an attempt to keep up the act of complacency he gives Cynthia free range of his room, telling her to take whatever she wants. It makes sense, after all. Everything in there is geared to a kid her age, anyhow. Cynthia acts like she's been given the keys to an especially exciting city, maybe made of chocolate or filled only with toy stores where everything is free. Suddenly his lack of interest in parks is forgiven in exchange for the opportunity to go through his museum piece of a bedroom and take away all the toys she's always wanted to get her hands on. It's not an entirely foolproof plan. She only takes the toys out in fits and starts, and plenty of other things remain inside: trophies and pictures and schoolbooks. Then sometimes she still forgets that he's the same person as the great mythological brother "Blaine" and takes it upon herself to let him know about the little boy who went away in the enthralled voice of a kid who's grown up thinking of his life like something out of a fairy tale.

"This was his favourite toy," she says once, holding up an admittedly cool-looking remote-controlled tarantula that he almost wants to take back because he's pretty certain it's still his favourite, although he doesn't remember it at all.

"This was his favourite movie," she says another time, holding a battered copy of The Secret of Nimh and when Blaine looks at it, he suddenly realizes that he never remembers watching the movie or reading the book while he was with Tom, but he still instinctively knew where the cat got her name. The wave of realization makes him feel a little sick, and he leaves Cynthia to keep snooping on her own as he retreats back to the TV set.

***

He'd hoped clearing out all the old toys would make things easier, but Blaine still is getting his ass kicked by a child's bedroom. He's tried, but no matter what he does he can't sleep properly when he's in there. Before long a nightly pattern emerges. It starts as he lies there with his eyes screwed shut so he can't see the pictures on the walls, wondering how much longer he'll be able to pretend like sorting through all of it won't be a problem. He tries to envision himself starting, attempting to prove to himself that looking through a child's things is a stupid thing to get upset about and that it can't possibly be as pathetically terrifying as he's making it out to be. He never gets very far, and before long his brain becomes crowded with fractured images of his parents looking disappointed and upset, maybe because he doesn't remember something he should. No matter what they say, this is a test and it's one that he knows he can't possibly pass. He's going to let them down. Then the panic sets in, as his thoughts become cyclical, concluding in the same place they began: I can't do this. Eventually he can't take it anymore and starts listening for his parents to go to bed and the house to quiet down. He sneaks downstairs and stretches out on the couch, never quite sleeping, listening for anyone getting up so he can sneak back into his room before he's noticed. 

It's awful and draining and Blaine's getting so sore he's starting to wonder if his ribs will ever get better, but at least he's getting more than an hour of sleep each night now. At least he doesn't feel like crying when he closes his eyes. Fortunately for him, his entire family seem to be late-risers, so he's always able to drag himself back to his room before the rest of the house stirs to life. The only one who knows his secret is the cat, who is more than happy to crawl onto Blaine's chest at night, purring loudly as she makes herself at home on her own personal heater, occasionally butting her head under Blaine's chin, dragging her odd, curly short fur across his skin.

Blaine wouldn't say it's working well, but at least it's working for him, which is better than nothing. It might have kept working too, if his parents hadn't started to go back to work a couple weeks after he comes home. Part of Blaine is relieved when they tell him they're going back. It's not like they sit around catching up with each other when they stay at home. Blaine doesn't remember any of the people they could tell him about, and he's certainly not about to chat about what he's been doing in the last nine years. Even if his plan wasn't to try his damndest to forget all of it, some things are just naturally hard to talk to your parents about. Psychological torture, for instance, or your strengths and weaknesses in the area of sexual foreplay. Plus, now that they'll be leaving during the day, he might be able to finally have a chance to call Kurt. Cynthia has a babysitter she goes to while they're at work, so he wouldn't have to worry about her ratting him out if she hears him talking about anything particularly damning, not that he expects to be having phone sex with Kurt at this point or anything. It's just nice to know that he's safe. Even though he's nervous being alone in the house all day, he's looking forward to the change. Until his parents start getting up earlier, anyhow, before he has a chance to go back to his room.

"Blaine?" His dad asks, clearly surprised. "What are you doing out here?"

Blaine just looks at him a little helplessly, not exactly sure what he should be saying. His mother walks in behind his dad.

"Are you having nightmares?" She asks. "That therapist I spoke with the other day mentioned that sometimes they can trigger sleepwalking."

"I don't sleepwalk," Blaine grits out, just wanting to run the hell away from this conversation. "I'm not having nightmares."

The last thing he wants is to end up being forced to talk to someone about how screwed up it is inside his head. Everyone knows enough about his personal life as it is.

In the end he refuses to explain anything, just repeats, "I'm sorry" and "it's nothing" and "I'm fine" until he escapes to his room, where he sits with the door closed and his back against the wall, pretending he can't hear when they knock. That night he's determined to stay in his own bed. He lasts until 3 o'clock before he sneaks back to the couch, but he doesn't go to sleep, just sits there staring at the blank television until he hears an alarm go off upstairs signalling it's time to sneak back to his own room.

He does the same thing for the next two nights, opting to fall asleep during the day with the TV on and all the doors locked. He's too tired to even think about calling Kurt. The next night it all goes to hell again though, and he falls asleep where he's sitting at some point just before it's starting to get light out, only to be woken by his father's hand on his shoulder. He doesn't even pretend like he's going to answer their questions this time, just shakes his head at them, apologizes and goes to his room.

The third time it happens his mother follows him with a look of unflappable determination.

"You need to talk to us, Blaine," she says, sounding firmer than he can ever remember hearing her. He feels his pulse speed up.

"It's okay," he insists. "I'm not having nightmares, I promise."

"Then why won't you stay the whole night in here?" she asks, standing in the doorway with her arms folded. "Stop shutting us out. Please. What's bothering you? Is it the room? Do you just not like your room?"

"The room is fine," Blaine mutters, but his mother has latched onto the idea and is running with it.

"It's too young, I know. I'm sorry about that Blaine. We wanted to wait until you felt a little better until we dealt with it, but if you really hate it we can start going through it right away. Tonight even, as soon as we get back from work. We can come up and – "

"No," Blaine says firmly, and he can feel his eyes start to water. He hopes she won't notice but of course he's never going to be that lucky.

"Why is this so upsetting to you, sweetie?" She asks, her voice soft and concerned. "I don't know how I'm supposed to be helping you."

"I don't need any help," Blaine insists. "I don't need you to go through the room with me, I don't need you to worry when I don't sleep in the right room. Everything is fine. I'm fine."

"No, you're not," she says. "You're not fine, Blaine, but that's okay. No one who's gone through what you've gone through could possibly be fine. But unless you talk to someone about what's going on in your head, it's just going to get worse. If you're not comfortable talking to me or Dad, that's okay, but you need to talk to someone. I can call Stevie's psychologist on break today and we can set up an appointment – "

"Please don't do that," Blaine says, trying to sound calm and not convinced he succeeds. "I don't want to talk to anyone about this. I'll get over it on my own. I promise."

She looks at him with an expression that clearly states she doesn't believe a word he's telling her, but finally concedes,

"Fine. I'll hold off for today, but we will be talking about this when we get home. I know it's hard and scary trying to sort through everything you're sorting through, but we love you very much and we can't let this keep happening, Blaine. It's taking too much out of you."

Blaine wants to tell her if she really cared about how he was feeling, she wouldn't make him talk about it, she'd just let him leave it all alone, but talking back to her feels uncomfortable and dangerous in a way he doesn't exactly understand. He honestly doesn't want to make things hard, but he can't agree to go along with her plans, either. So he sits alone in his room, on the ridiculously childish bed and tries to stave off his complete breakdown until everyone else has left the house. He looks wildly around the room without letting his eyes focus on anything for too long, afraid to really let anything register before he finally latches onto the fleeting thought, I should just do it before everyone comes back.

It doesn't make sense, because his parents aren't punishing him for not going through the room or even sleeping on the couch. They're just scared for him and Blaine knows that, but he can't shake the idea that if he gets done before they come home, they'll see that he's coping fine without anyone else getting involved. He won't have to talk about his feelings, he won't have to let anyone know that he's never going to be anything like the perfect child they've built a shrine to in this house. Everyone will keep pretending things are the way they should be and no one will push to see the sick truth underneath. This is something he has to do for them. He has to make sure they don't regret finding him.

Blaine is pretty sure he's left anything that even remotely resembles rational thought, but that doesn't stop him from taking a shuddering gasp of air and walking over to the desk in the corner, yanking open the bottom drawer and spilling the contents out onto the floor around him. He sinks down onto his knees and starts randomly picking things up and putting them into piles, not stopping to look at what he's holding. He keeps hoping that once he's started everything will come easier and he'll feel better, but everything he touches just makes the tension ratchet up higher. He gives up after not even five minutes, holding a piece of paper with a badly drawn family, holding little stick hands underneath a smiling sun. It looks like some old school assignment, and underneath the picture in shaky print are a few lines about family. Blaine hasn't read what they say, can't stop staring at the drawing, almost wanting to laugh at how cliché it is that this is the first thing he let himself look at. This is the reason they loved you: the poster boy for the perfect kid. This is what you have to teach yourself to be all over again. This is what you can never get back. This is why you're worthless.

He doesn't register that he's crying like a girl in the middle of a bedroom littered with grade school art assignments until he feels the tears start dripping off his nose. He's pretty certain he's never felt more pathetic his entire life, but he's also sure the house could collapse on him and he wouldn't feel any worse. He doesn't know what he should do, there's nothing really wrong but it feels like everything's falling apart. He just wants someone he doesn't have to worry about making a mistake in front of, someone who already knows what normal is supposed to look like but still isn't freaked out by irrational panic. He's so tired of hiding who he is to keep the people he cares about. He wasn't supposed to have to do that anymore. He wants someone he can trust.

He doesn't even register that he's gotten up to find the piece of paper until he's picked up the phone and dialling.

"Hello?" Kurt's voice is a little uncertain, but he still picks up almost right away.

"Kurt?" He says, and his own voice is scratchy and uneven. "I don't think I know how to do this. Please, just tell me how I'm supposed to do this."

***

It takes a while to explain what it is he's so upset about when Kurt asks, because Blaine doesn't exactly know the answer. In the end he supposes what it all comes down to is that he has no idea how to act like a rational human being when he's in this house. He feels like an alien with no concept of the native culture. He should feel guiltier for caving so easily when Kurt demands his address so he can come over, especially after Kurt reminds him that he'll be driving up from Lima because school is over for the year, but he doesn't. He just goes downstairs and sits by the front door for hours that go by disconcertingly fast, waiting for the doorbell to ring. When it finally does he's pulling the door open before Kurt even has a chance to lower his hand from the button.

Kurt is staring at him a little like he's looking at a ghost, and Blaine supposes that he probably looks a lot worse than the last time Kurt saw him, even though the cast and a fairly intense meltdown are the only things still visibly wrong now, but Blaine's not in the mood to entertain Kurt's flair for the dramatic at the moment, not when he's got his own issues to wade through. He grabs Kurt's hand with his good one and pulls him inside, before the neighbours can get too curious.

Kurt's arms are around him as soon as the door closes, and Blaine hugs him back just as tightly. It should hurt more than it does, but Blaine is pretty certain he's been on an adrenaline high ever since he woke up this morning, so the numbness isn't terribly surprising. They don't say anything for a long time, just stand there holding each other. It feels so right that Blaine can't stop himself from wishing he'd gotten to stay with him like he'd wanted in the first place, right after Anthony Rashad's party.

"I missed you," Kurt finally says, making no move to pull away.

"I missed you, too," Blaine says. "I'm sorry I didn't call right away. It's all so confusing here."

"I imagine it would be," Kurt says, finally pulling away and looking beyond Blaine's shoulder with a confused look.

"What?" Blaine asked.

"I'm over-emotional," Kurt says, still staring. "I could have sworn I just saw a stuffed toy climbing up your stairs."

He looks at Blaine and grins brightly. "It looks like you're not the only one losing his mind. That's good, we can be one of those couples who do everything together."

"Shut up," Blaine says fondly, relieved at the way the world is slowly coming back into focus. "That was probably the cat. She's really weird-looking."

"Ah," Kurt says, turning to look back at Blaine undeterred. "Well, maybe we can try for the matching his and his straightjackets next time then."

His smile gets a little more serious and he brings a hand up to Blaine's face, stopping abruptly and letting it hover as he asks, "Can I?" Blaine nods, wondering why they both feel like they have to ask before they touch. Kurt starts carefully brushing his hair back from his face in a way that, from anyone else, could be called motherly.

"What happens to the stuff in that room is nobody's business but yours," he says, quietly. "No one is going to judge you if you don't remember something or if you don't want to keep a grandmother's gift sweater that you probably hated when you were seven, too."

"I'm going to hurt them," Blaine insists, and Kurt just nods.

"Probably," he says. "But they'll hurt you, too. It's going to balance out."

"I don't know who these people are," Blaine tries again. "I haven't even told them about us because I don't know what I'll do if they're not okay with it, and you're the only part of my old life that's worth talking about."

"They're your parents," Kurt says. "And they love you. That's why it hurts. I'm guessing that if you severed a limb it would hurt a lot after they sewed it back on."

"You were coming up with that analogy all the way over, weren't you?"

"Only the first hour," Kurt says. "The rest of the time I was thinking about the best ways to get most of the crap out of your room before your parents come back."

"Thank you so much," Blaine says, snuggling back into Kurt's arms again. Technically they haven't even had one date yet, and this level of neediness should be avoided at all costs, because even he knows this isn't a turn on, but he feels too good to care. "I don't know why this is such a problem for me."

"The room's not really the problem, I don't think," Kurt says. "You're just focusing your energy on that because it's something you can fix."

That sounds suspiciously self-help-y to Blaine and so does a lot of the other stuff Kurt's been saying, now that he thinks about it. He lets go a little incredulously.

"Are you feeding me catchphrases and chapter headings from Borders?" He demands.

"What?" Kurt says, defensively. "They don't cover this sort of thing on Google books in accessible language, Blaine. Where else was I supposed to look?"

"Why are you looking anywhere?" Blaine says, not sure if he's feeling mad, frustrated, or just confused.

"Because I know how to deal with all of this stuff just about as well as you do," Kurt says, unapologetically. "And no offence Blaine, but you suck at this. Even Finn can clean his room without having to be prescribed anxiety medication."

He takes Blaine's hand and looks at him expectantly.

"Show me your room and tell me what your family is like," he says. "Then we can get rid of the old you."

***

Kurt is wonderfully methodical about sifting through Blaine's room.

"I did this for my dad a few years after Mom died," he explains. "Her things were all still in his room and some days he'd look at them and have trouble even getting out of bed, but he couldn't let anything go. I didn't want to lose her things either, but I really wanted my dad back, so one day I sorted through their things and asked him about what made him happy and what made him sad. The happy stuff stayed where it was and the sad stuff went into boxes."

"What happened to the boxes?" Blaine asks.

"They're in the attic of our new house, next to the boxes with Carole's memories of her first husband. Sometimes Finn and I go through them, and sometimes Dad and Carole manage to pull them out and get rid of a couple things they can let go of, but for the most part they just stay hidden away. It makes everyone feel better knowing they're still around."

Kurt sorts everything into piles and, unlike Blaine's, they have actual meaning and purpose.

"Tell me what you remember," he commands, holding up an old Little League picture. Blaine shrugs.

"I sort of remember playing a couple games. I don't remember being such a weird looking little kid, but apparently I was," he offers.

Kurt looks at the picture.

"Shut up, you were adorable," he says firmly, before setting the picture down and saying. "Anything you don't remember and don't care about, we can put here. Your parents can look at what there is and decide if they want to keep any of it after, but there's no reason to keep it in your room, right?"

In the end they put everything into three separate piles. The first pile is the biggest, full of things that hold no meaning, where most of his school work and pictures end up. Then Kurt makes a pile for the things that make his skin crawl whether he remembers them or not, like old trophies and awards from clubs and teams he never remembers being a part of, and pictures of school friends he recognizes but can't name. Finally there's a much smaller pile for the things Blaine wants to keep, like a picture they find of him on his grandfather's knee, grinning hugely, and a disturbingly violent stick figure illustration he drew that is very likely a scene from Pulp Fiction, complete with accompanying teacher's note suggesting his parents meet with her to have a talk. His mother has added to the note in pencil "Found out today that Blaine has been sneaking downstairs after bedtime to watch late night TV after Dad falls asleep watching the Movie of the Week. The good news is he thinks 'little sucker' is a swear word, the bad news is his teacher thinks we're unfit parents." 

Kurt laughs until he has to wipe away the tears, and Blaine is amazed that this whole process seems so much easier with him here. He's starting to feel embarrassed that he was too scared to try on his own. It's not hard at all when Kurt makes everything so straightforward. At least, it's not hard at first, but the longer they go through drawers and look at pictures, the more hollow and empty Blaine starts to feel inside. He's missing so much. How is he ever going to become part of this family again when there's so little of them left in his memory?

"I'm never going to get any of this back," he says after an hour, trying to keep his emotions in check and failing spectacularly when he throws a book across the room. It's way too advanced for a seven-year-old kid to be reading, but apparently his parents were those "read to your kids at night" kinds of parents, and there's a bookmark indicating that they made it about halfway through before he disappeared. Looking at it triggers distant memories of his father's voice droning on with him tucked into his side, feeling the vibrations of the words come up through his chest as his eyes droop shut. He leans against the bed and stares at the ceiling, an old glow-in-the-dark constellation looking down at him. Another memory he can't hold onto. The air next to him shifts as Kurt settles down beside him.

"It's okay if you don't remember," he says, but Blaine shakes his head.

"It's not that," he says. "I don't remember enough. It's like, I look at all of this and there are pieces that come through, but I need more. I remember but it doesn't help."

"I know," Kurt says. "I feel that way about my mom. It's not fair that what I remember gets fuzzier when it's all that I have left."

"Please don't talk about your dead mother right now," Blaine begs. "You make me feel like an asshole. I shouldn't be whining, it's not like I won't be seeing them in a few hours."

"You're allowed to feel the way you feel, Blaine," Kurt says insistently. "We both lost parents, just in different ways. It's allowed to hurt. When Carole came into the picture it was like losing Mom all over again, because she made me realize how much I'd forgotten what having a mother was like. It felt like I'd betrayed her by forgetting, but I hadn't. Bad things happen, and while you find ways to work through it, sometimes you lose stuff. It's sad but you don't have to feel guilty about it."

Blaine doesn't say anything to that, so Kurt asks,

"Do you need a break?"

"Yes please," Blaine says.

"What do you want to do?" Kurt asks. "Should we grab some lunch or something?"

"Would making out be inappropriate right now?" Blaine asks. "Because I know we haven't actually gone on a date yet, and I don't want to come across as easy, but so far my day has really sucked and that might go a long way towards turning it around."

"Seriously?" Kurt says. "You didn't even hesitate. Is this what you think about in your spare time?"

"There's not a lot to do here," Blaine says. "What else am I supposed to do? Unless you'd prefer that my entire life just becomes one non-stop pity party."

Kurt snorts a little derisively, but still grabs at the front of Blaine's shirt and pulls him closer before moving their mouths together, so he's obviously not adverse to the idea. It still feels as stupid wonderful as it did almost two months ago when they kissed on the Hummel porch, even though Blaine's life has changed so much since then he doesn't even feel like the same person anymore. He leans in, moving further and further into Kurt's space until his sides start catching and his breath comes up short. Kurt's hands are gently pushing back almost at once, as he mutters into Blaine's mouth. "Steady there, tiger. If you want to come out to your parents at your own pace, a call from the hospital telling them you managed to break a rib kissing a devastatingly charming and attractive guy isn't the way to do it."

Blaine laughs.

"'Tiger'?" he says. "Really? My grandmother used to call me that, Kurt. It's not exactly a turn on."

Kurt pulls back to grin at him.

"That's new," he says excitedly. "Maybe my mouth has restorative powers for the memory, like those pills they sell in the herbal remedy aisle at the store. Should I be charging for this?"

"I don't care how much money you spend on your clothes," Blaine says. "Or that you like to pretend you don't play Finn's video games. You're a bigger dork than I am."

When they finally get back to sorting, Blaine sees Kurt picking up the book and moving it to the Bad Memories pile.

"Wait," he says, a little impulsively.

Kurt looks at him expectantly.

"Let's keep it in the room for now," he says, thinking about his father's voice vibrating out from deep inside his chest, and how safe the memory feels. He wants more of it, but he figures maybe there are times when you hold onto the little piece that you have, even if it stings.

***

They work steadily for hours, until Blaine feels raw, like all his nerve endings are on fire. It feels like he's stopping to break down more often than they're actually making any decisions, but Kurt isn't complaining. He just sets down whatever is in his hands at any given moment and grabs Blaine into another hug as he lets him try to make sense of the emotions bubbling up inside of him. Blaine's so tired, he just wants this to be over. He doesn't even hear the side door open and close when everyone gets home, although he does register Kurt tensing a little from where he's sitting on the bed with his arms around Blaine as Blaine sits there leaning his head into Kurt's chest.

He pulls away when the door to his room flies open and Cynthia is there, staring at them in open curiosity before running back downstairs shouting, 

"Dad! Mom! There's a strange boy in Blaine's room and they've made a really big mess!"

Kurt raises an eyebrow as she continues.

"Nothing's where it belongs and you told me no friends over without your permission. Are they gonna get in trouble? Can I watch?"

"Wow," Kurt whispers. "She's a charmer, isn't she?"

"You should see her after she's snuck into the powdered sugar," Blaine says, absently putting a hand to his eyes and wishing he didn't look as obviously upset as he's certain he does. His dad pokes his head around the door a moment later, his mother not far behind.

"Sorry," Blaine mumbles, not really looking at them directly. "This is Kurt. He came over to help me sort through some of this. You told me to have him over, I didn't know you meant while you were here."

"No, that's fine," his dad says, looking around as he takes in the chaos of the room. "Cynthia is still learning that the house rules are different when you're six than they are when you're sixteen. Your mom and I were planning on helping you do this tonight, but it looks like you beat us to it. Do you need any more help?"

"I think we're almost finished, Mr. Anderson," Kurt says, and Blaine notices that his father starts a little when he hears the high voice but beyond that doesn't react any differently. "Are there any boxes we can use to put these away?"

"Are you getting rid of everything?" His mother asks. She sounds a little anxious, and Blaine can see her looking at what each pile contains as she tries not to show her panic.

"Oh no," Kurt says, calmly, like he's used to manipulating adults to get what he wants and considering that he now has a new family, he probably is, so Blaine lets him take control happily. It's nice to let someone else handle his parents for a change. "Once we get the boxes out we can show you what we've been doing. We didn't think it would be fair to get rid of anything until you've looked at it, but most of what we're taking out could easily go into storage."

"Most?" His dad asks.

Blaine points to the lamp in the corner with the shade that is covered with footballs, soccer balls, and baseballs.

"You can save it if you have to, but why would you want to?" he asks.

His mother smiles at him.

"I tried telling you that you'd regret getting it when we bought it," she says. "But you were adamant."

She's come home with several catalogues for him to look at so they can replace the furniture as well. Kurt ends up staying for supper and offering very vocal advise on what his new bureau should look like. His parents seem to like him just fine, which is a relief to Blaine, even if they don't technically know that they're meeting his boyfriend. He'd feel bad about keeping it from them but he figures that before he tells his family anything it's only fair to let Kurt know about his new title and there's no way Blaine's going to admit that until they've spent more time fooling around. He has his pride, after all.

With Kurt there the conversation comes easier and feels less awkward. It's like there's a safety net under him and Blaine doesn't have to worry about losing all the progress he's made if he says the wrong thing. It's late when Kurt finally leaves and even though he promises to call and stop by the next time he gets a day off from his dad's shop, Blaine wishes he didn't have to go. Without Kurt there to act as go-between Blaine is back to being the emotional fuck-up who can't function on a day-to-day basis and acts like a stranger in his own house. Everyone told him this part would suck, but they all keep promising it will get better, even Kurt. Blaine wants to believe them, but he can't shake the feeling that trying so hard to make this work will turn out to be pointless in the long run, because maybe it really will hurt less the longer they work at it, but is it going to be worth it if he's still missing a family at the end?