Learning To Breathe Again (Chapter 10)
A/N: I swear, these chapters just keep growing when I’m not looking. This one is 2400 words. The next one will be around 3000. Sorry, I can’t help it :)
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CHAPTER 10. Miracles
When Blaine got home on Thursday, he was already in a miserable mood. It was another hard day at school, with too little control and way too much stress. His Chemistry teacher, the only one who didn’t seem to want to make it any easier for him, humiliated him in front of the entire group, commenting on his absent expression and glazed eyes. Fine, he was lost in thought again. He couldn’t help it. Then, to make matters worse, his lab partner tried to get his attention, grabbing his wrist as he was passing by in the cafeteria during lunch. It was not a good idea. The outcome included a dropped lunch tray, a lot of apologizing to the guy for flinging him against some chairs - hard enough to topple them over - and a shouting fit by Kurt, who attacked the floored (or rather, chaired) boy with scathing lecture about personal boundaries. All in all, he was sure they both gained reputation as unstable after that. Lovely. Just what he needed, being the latest victim of the Dalton rumor mill.
And now it was time for the other half of his wonderful day. Home sweet home. At least his father would come late tonight - it was his weekly poker night at the club, so Blaine wouldn’t have to sneak around the house, trying to avoid his cutting remarks.
As he closed the door behind him, he froze. Something was off. The air didn’t seem right. Then his eyes widened: the smell! The house smelled like cooking. And not just any cooking; like fresh herbs and crushed garlic, tomato sauce and meatballs. It was a smell of his childhood. Of comfort food - the spaghetti his mom used to make for him whenever he was particularly sad or got hurt. He couldn’t remember when he smelled it last. But… how could he smell it now? The house was empty, his mom wouldn’t be back from the office for hours. Only then would she go to the kitchen, to prepare dinner for the next day. But not the spaghetti. Never the spaghetti anymore, because his father didn’t eat pasta. So was he having hallucinations now, on top of everything else?
Blaine set his bag on the floor and slowly, carefully peered into the kitchen. He was prepared to see it empty, the heavenly smell a product of his imagination. Or maybe some crazy burglar broke in and was cooking dinner for himself. What he wasn’t prepared for was…
“Mom?”
She was just standing there, by the oven, stirring the sauce and humming to herself, and she looked like… like the mom he used to have years ago. When she still loved him. She was out of power suit, in black jeans and a plain red t-shirt, barefoot. Her hair was loose, her face without make-up. He felt as if he traveled back in time and was thirteen again, coming home from school to the smell of dinner and his mom’s cheerful voice singing in the kitchen. He would drop the bag and join her in song if it was a good day. If it wasn’t, if the other kids were teasing him again, he would go and lay his head on her shoulder, and she would hug him and ask what happened. And he would tell her, and she would hug him tighter and play with his curls and say that it would get better eventually, that people were sometimes mean to those who were special, and he was special and strong and amazing. And it would help.
But it was years ago, when his mom still cared about him. About anything, not just the company. She couldn’t be here like that now, right?
Except she was. And she was smiling at him. Her real smile, the one he almost forgot, not that fake grin she wore around him all the time now.
“Hi, honey! I thought you’d be home earlier.”
“Long Warblers’ practice, the last one before Regionals tomorrow. Mom, what are you doing here?”
“What does it look like? I’m cooking dinner for us, of course.”
“But… why aren’t you at the office? Are you sick?” Yes, that was the only explanation.
“No, I just wanted to spend some time with you, so I took a day off.”
Blaine felt his mouth open in surprise. A whole day off? It hadn’t happened in… hm, probably ever. And just to be with him? He didn’t know what was happening, but he wasn’t going to complain. He would take as much as was given, as long as it lasted. Because it wouldn’t last long, he knew.
“Go change and wash your hands. We’ll eat in ten minutes.”
They did and it was lovely. The spaghetti was just as he remembered it, except even better, and this in itself made him feel so much safer, as if a thick plush blanket of comfort was tucked around him. And they were talking, really talking - this type of talking that involved listening to the other person. Of course, he was very careful not to mention anything connected with his recent problems or his sexuality; after all, he wanted this miracle to last as long as possible, and reminding his mom what he was would be a sure way to break the spell. But he told her about the Regionals, without explaining why he didn’t have a solo this time, about their preparations and the crazy choreography, and Kurt’s constant lamenting over “being the next Taylor Swift”. She in turn told him about their new manager at the company, who was an excellent specialist, but his fervent belief in supernatural made him and his quirks a source of constant entertainment.
After dinner his mom made them coffee and he followed her to the living room, astonished and delighted that it wasn’t the end of their time together yet, and feeling better than he had all week. They settled on the comfy black sofa, closer than they’d sat in years, and his mother asked, touching his hand,
“So how was your day?”
“Fine. Uneventful.” He answered too fast, eager to get off the risky topic, afraid that his eyes may betray him.
“Blaine, don’t give me that show face, baby. How was it really?”
Right. Who was he kidding. It was his mother, she could look right through him when she wanted to. So that was it, the end of bonding time. He may as well tell the truth.
“It was terrible. I couldn’t focus again. And then I shoved a guy, because he grabbed my wrist when I didn’t expect it and I flashed back, so I reacted on instinct.”
“Does it happen often?”
“What, the shoving? No, usually I just jump out of my skin when someone touches me suddenly. But it was the wrist, and he grabbed me and… it just reminded me.”
“Of what?”
He was just tired now. Tired and sad and disappointed, and his hands shook and he felt like crying. And then he just got angry.
“Of the damn handcuffs, okay?” He heard his mom gasp, saw her cover her mouth, but he was unable to stop now, weeks of pent-up anger at his parents spilling over, unleashing the need to hurt, to cruelly tell her everything. “Of the fucking handcuffs that fucking bastard put on me so that I couldn’t move, couldn’t run, so I was trapped there, laid out and exposed for him to take me, to fuck me and hurt me and… Is that what you wanted to know?”
He was shouting at this point, tears streaming down his face, he was just so damn tired, he wanted to get better, to forget, to be himself, to be accepted. He knew he wanted too much.
Except then he felt arms around him, pulling him into embrace, hugging him tightly to a warm, sweet smelling shoulder, and his mom was stroking his hair and repeating “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry” until her own tears choked her up.
Part of him was stunned and shocked and suspicious, and still trying to think and analyze, but it was a really small part. The rest just wanted to sink into his mother’s embrace and trust her, give up fighting and pretending and just let her hold him. So he did. He sat there, sobbing into his mom’s shoulder over all the pain and injustice of what happened to him, hoping that she got him now, that he’d be fine, and she whispered in his ear “It will be alright, I promise. We’ll get you help, we’ll get through this together. I’m so, so sorry I’m so late to understand, but I’m here and I’m not leaving, and I love you so much.”
And when he finally raised his head, he saw her eyes, red from crying just like his, but unguarded, honest and full of emotion. And when she swore to him that she’d be there for him from now on, he believed her, because he wanted it so, so much.
The conversation that followed was long and painful for both of them. There were confessions and tears and regrets. Blaine couldn’t believe that his own mom could assume such idiotic things about him - as if she didn’t know him, as if she couldn’t have just asked! All this time when his heart broke because he thought she stopped loving him, all the nights he cried into his pillow, all the pain he had to go through alone - all because of a stupid stereotype no one even marginally intelligent should ever believe in? He didn’t hide his anger and disappointment. His mom never even tried to defend her point - she just told him again and again how sorry she was. She cried. He cried. It would probably take a long time, but Blaine knew he’d forgive her eventually. After all, she was his mom and he loved her despite everything.
They talked long into the evening. He told her about his life during these two long years when she hadn’t really wanted to know for fear of what she’d learn. He spoke about the Warblers, about the Jeremiah fiasco, the Rachel confusion. He spoke about Eric. She asked, so he told her everything in detail, finding solace in her arms once again. And then he spoke about Kurt. About their friendship and how Kurt had been there for him when he most needed a helping hand. About his amazing family. About love, the beginnings of their relationship, and how happy it made him. He told her he thought she’d like Kurt. She smiled.
When they finished talking, Blaine could barely speak with exhaustion.
That evening he didn’t listen to Kurt’s CD. He fell asleep with his mom sitting on the edge of his bed, holding his hand and singing lullabies he remembered from his childhood. And for once, he didn’t dream of terrors. He slept peacefully, never waking up until his alarm in the morning, not even when his father came home and had a heated conversation with his wife downstairs.
***
Carl Anderson was a strong, tough man. He was proud and stubborn. He knew what he wanted and despised those who didn’t. He didn’t care about silly, sentimental things like art, music, theatre - it was a waste of time. The world was hard, so a man had to be harder.
Contrary to what his family might think, he wasn’t a homophobe. He didn’t really care if his son was gay - he just cared that he insisted on flaunting it. Image was everything, after all - people judged you by what they saw. What you did privately, in your own home, was your business. Why couldn’t Blaine understand how much more he could achieve, how much farther get in his life if he just stayed silent about certain things, maybe pretend a little? He was no stranger to pretending, performing, what could it hurt?
The boy was still so young, he just didn’t get it yet. One day he would thank his father for the tough love.
At least that’s what he told himself late on those nights when sleep eluded him and doubts escaped the tightly guarded corner of his soul where they were locked most of the time. He didn’t like to remember it in the morning, so he just made himself forget.
That Thursday night Carl Anderson was forcefully reminded of the fiercely protective, independent woman he fell in love with two decades ago. And since he knew very well that she always chose her battles, but when she decided to fight one, it was important and there was no stopping her, he listened. When she told him that their son’s ordeal not only wasn’t exaggerated, but they hadn’t even known all the details, because they never asked him, at first he got furious at that sick bastard who did this, and then he cried like a baby. And when his tears were spent, he did something he almost never did: admitted that he was wrong. Not just about the recent incident, but about Blaine in general. And while he didn’t really know any other way to raise a son, he promised his wife that he would do whatever he could to change. Yes, he would educate himself and work on his attitude. Yes, he would try to accept Blaine’s choices and stop forcing his views upon him. Yes, he would stop being an asshole who chooses his image over his own child. Yes.
***
Kurt got a standing ovation and their choreography for Raise Your Glass rocked, but they still lost to New Directions. And honestly, even as he saw disappointment in everyone’s eyes, Blaine quietly admitted to himself that he was relieved. New York was so far out of his comfort zone right now, even thinking about going made him dizzy. Sure, Nationals would be awesome, but he had more important battles to fight. Next week he would be meeting his therapist for the first time.
When everyone was done congratulating each other and the audience had mostly left, Blaine saw something that made his heart lose a beat.
For the first time since he’d become a Warbler, his parents came to see him sing.
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In the next chapter: Earthquake
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CHAPTER 10. Miracles
When Blaine got home on Thursday, he was already in a miserable mood. It was another hard day at school, with too little control and way too much stress. His Chemistry teacher, the only one who didn’t seem to want to make it any easier for him, humiliated him in front of the entire group, commenting on his absent expression and glazed eyes. Fine, he was lost in thought again. He couldn’t help it. Then, to make matters worse, his lab partner tried to get his attention, grabbing his wrist as he was passing by in the cafeteria during lunch. It was not a good idea. The outcome included a dropped lunch tray, a lot of apologizing to the guy for flinging him against some chairs - hard enough to topple them over - and a shouting fit by Kurt, who attacked the floored (or rather, chaired) boy with scathing lecture about personal boundaries. All in all, he was sure they both gained reputation as unstable after that. Lovely. Just what he needed, being the latest victim of the Dalton rumor mill.
And now it was time for the other half of his wonderful day. Home sweet home. At least his father would come late tonight - it was his weekly poker night at the club, so Blaine wouldn’t have to sneak around the house, trying to avoid his cutting remarks.
As he closed the door behind him, he froze. Something was off. The air didn’t seem right. Then his eyes widened: the smell! The house smelled like cooking. And not just any cooking; like fresh herbs and crushed garlic, tomato sauce and meatballs. It was a smell of his childhood. Of comfort food - the spaghetti his mom used to make for him whenever he was particularly sad or got hurt. He couldn’t remember when he smelled it last. But… how could he smell it now? The house was empty, his mom wouldn’t be back from the office for hours. Only then would she go to the kitchen, to prepare dinner for the next day. But not the spaghetti. Never the spaghetti anymore, because his father didn’t eat pasta. So was he having hallucinations now, on top of everything else?
Blaine set his bag on the floor and slowly, carefully peered into the kitchen. He was prepared to see it empty, the heavenly smell a product of his imagination. Or maybe some crazy burglar broke in and was cooking dinner for himself. What he wasn’t prepared for was…
“Mom?”
She was just standing there, by the oven, stirring the sauce and humming to herself, and she looked like… like the mom he used to have years ago. When she still loved him. She was out of power suit, in black jeans and a plain red t-shirt, barefoot. Her hair was loose, her face without make-up. He felt as if he traveled back in time and was thirteen again, coming home from school to the smell of dinner and his mom’s cheerful voice singing in the kitchen. He would drop the bag and join her in song if it was a good day. If it wasn’t, if the other kids were teasing him again, he would go and lay his head on her shoulder, and she would hug him and ask what happened. And he would tell her, and she would hug him tighter and play with his curls and say that it would get better eventually, that people were sometimes mean to those who were special, and he was special and strong and amazing. And it would help.
But it was years ago, when his mom still cared about him. About anything, not just the company. She couldn’t be here like that now, right?
Except she was. And she was smiling at him. Her real smile, the one he almost forgot, not that fake grin she wore around him all the time now.
“Hi, honey! I thought you’d be home earlier.”
“Long Warblers’ practice, the last one before Regionals tomorrow. Mom, what are you doing here?”
“What does it look like? I’m cooking dinner for us, of course.”
“But… why aren’t you at the office? Are you sick?” Yes, that was the only explanation.
“No, I just wanted to spend some time with you, so I took a day off.”
Blaine felt his mouth open in surprise. A whole day off? It hadn’t happened in… hm, probably ever. And just to be with him? He didn’t know what was happening, but he wasn’t going to complain. He would take as much as was given, as long as it lasted. Because it wouldn’t last long, he knew.
“Go change and wash your hands. We’ll eat in ten minutes.”
They did and it was lovely. The spaghetti was just as he remembered it, except even better, and this in itself made him feel so much safer, as if a thick plush blanket of comfort was tucked around him. And they were talking, really talking - this type of talking that involved listening to the other person. Of course, he was very careful not to mention anything connected with his recent problems or his sexuality; after all, he wanted this miracle to last as long as possible, and reminding his mom what he was would be a sure way to break the spell. But he told her about the Regionals, without explaining why he didn’t have a solo this time, about their preparations and the crazy choreography, and Kurt’s constant lamenting over “being the next Taylor Swift”. She in turn told him about their new manager at the company, who was an excellent specialist, but his fervent belief in supernatural made him and his quirks a source of constant entertainment.
After dinner his mom made them coffee and he followed her to the living room, astonished and delighted that it wasn’t the end of their time together yet, and feeling better than he had all week. They settled on the comfy black sofa, closer than they’d sat in years, and his mother asked, touching his hand,
“So how was your day?”
“Fine. Uneventful.” He answered too fast, eager to get off the risky topic, afraid that his eyes may betray him.
“Blaine, don’t give me that show face, baby. How was it really?”
Right. Who was he kidding. It was his mother, she could look right through him when she wanted to. So that was it, the end of bonding time. He may as well tell the truth.
“It was terrible. I couldn’t focus again. And then I shoved a guy, because he grabbed my wrist when I didn’t expect it and I flashed back, so I reacted on instinct.”
“Does it happen often?”
“What, the shoving? No, usually I just jump out of my skin when someone touches me suddenly. But it was the wrist, and he grabbed me and… it just reminded me.”
“Of what?”
He was just tired now. Tired and sad and disappointed, and his hands shook and he felt like crying. And then he just got angry.
“Of the damn handcuffs, okay?” He heard his mom gasp, saw her cover her mouth, but he was unable to stop now, weeks of pent-up anger at his parents spilling over, unleashing the need to hurt, to cruelly tell her everything. “Of the fucking handcuffs that fucking bastard put on me so that I couldn’t move, couldn’t run, so I was trapped there, laid out and exposed for him to take me, to fuck me and hurt me and… Is that what you wanted to know?”
He was shouting at this point, tears streaming down his face, he was just so damn tired, he wanted to get better, to forget, to be himself, to be accepted. He knew he wanted too much.
Except then he felt arms around him, pulling him into embrace, hugging him tightly to a warm, sweet smelling shoulder, and his mom was stroking his hair and repeating “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry” until her own tears choked her up.
Part of him was stunned and shocked and suspicious, and still trying to think and analyze, but it was a really small part. The rest just wanted to sink into his mother’s embrace and trust her, give up fighting and pretending and just let her hold him. So he did. He sat there, sobbing into his mom’s shoulder over all the pain and injustice of what happened to him, hoping that she got him now, that he’d be fine, and she whispered in his ear “It will be alright, I promise. We’ll get you help, we’ll get through this together. I’m so, so sorry I’m so late to understand, but I’m here and I’m not leaving, and I love you so much.”
And when he finally raised his head, he saw her eyes, red from crying just like his, but unguarded, honest and full of emotion. And when she swore to him that she’d be there for him from now on, he believed her, because he wanted it so, so much.
The conversation that followed was long and painful for both of them. There were confessions and tears and regrets. Blaine couldn’t believe that his own mom could assume such idiotic things about him - as if she didn’t know him, as if she couldn’t have just asked! All this time when his heart broke because he thought she stopped loving him, all the nights he cried into his pillow, all the pain he had to go through alone - all because of a stupid stereotype no one even marginally intelligent should ever believe in? He didn’t hide his anger and disappointment. His mom never even tried to defend her point - she just told him again and again how sorry she was. She cried. He cried. It would probably take a long time, but Blaine knew he’d forgive her eventually. After all, she was his mom and he loved her despite everything.
They talked long into the evening. He told her about his life during these two long years when she hadn’t really wanted to know for fear of what she’d learn. He spoke about the Warblers, about the Jeremiah fiasco, the Rachel confusion. He spoke about Eric. She asked, so he told her everything in detail, finding solace in her arms once again. And then he spoke about Kurt. About their friendship and how Kurt had been there for him when he most needed a helping hand. About his amazing family. About love, the beginnings of their relationship, and how happy it made him. He told her he thought she’d like Kurt. She smiled.
When they finished talking, Blaine could barely speak with exhaustion.
That evening he didn’t listen to Kurt’s CD. He fell asleep with his mom sitting on the edge of his bed, holding his hand and singing lullabies he remembered from his childhood. And for once, he didn’t dream of terrors. He slept peacefully, never waking up until his alarm in the morning, not even when his father came home and had a heated conversation with his wife downstairs.
***
Carl Anderson was a strong, tough man. He was proud and stubborn. He knew what he wanted and despised those who didn’t. He didn’t care about silly, sentimental things like art, music, theatre - it was a waste of time. The world was hard, so a man had to be harder.
Contrary to what his family might think, he wasn’t a homophobe. He didn’t really care if his son was gay - he just cared that he insisted on flaunting it. Image was everything, after all - people judged you by what they saw. What you did privately, in your own home, was your business. Why couldn’t Blaine understand how much more he could achieve, how much farther get in his life if he just stayed silent about certain things, maybe pretend a little? He was no stranger to pretending, performing, what could it hurt?
The boy was still so young, he just didn’t get it yet. One day he would thank his father for the tough love.
At least that’s what he told himself late on those nights when sleep eluded him and doubts escaped the tightly guarded corner of his soul where they were locked most of the time. He didn’t like to remember it in the morning, so he just made himself forget.
That Thursday night Carl Anderson was forcefully reminded of the fiercely protective, independent woman he fell in love with two decades ago. And since he knew very well that she always chose her battles, but when she decided to fight one, it was important and there was no stopping her, he listened. When she told him that their son’s ordeal not only wasn’t exaggerated, but they hadn’t even known all the details, because they never asked him, at first he got furious at that sick bastard who did this, and then he cried like a baby. And when his tears were spent, he did something he almost never did: admitted that he was wrong. Not just about the recent incident, but about Blaine in general. And while he didn’t really know any other way to raise a son, he promised his wife that he would do whatever he could to change. Yes, he would educate himself and work on his attitude. Yes, he would try to accept Blaine’s choices and stop forcing his views upon him. Yes, he would stop being an asshole who chooses his image over his own child. Yes.
***
Kurt got a standing ovation and their choreography for Raise Your Glass rocked, but they still lost to New Directions. And honestly, even as he saw disappointment in everyone’s eyes, Blaine quietly admitted to himself that he was relieved. New York was so far out of his comfort zone right now, even thinking about going made him dizzy. Sure, Nationals would be awesome, but he had more important battles to fight. Next week he would be meeting his therapist for the first time.
When everyone was done congratulating each other and the audience had mostly left, Blaine saw something that made his heart lose a beat.
For the first time since he’d become a Warbler, his parents came to see him sing.
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In the next chapter: Earthquake