fic: hold my head above the water (blaine/kurt+sam)
hold my head above the water.
by novelized. ~5000 words.
pairing: kurt/blaine + sam evans friendship.
summary: the deleted scenes from rumours. sam delivers a pizza to dalton.
rating: pg.
“I,” Blaine announces, “am starving.”
Kurt glances over from his spot on the sofa, a pencil tucked behind his ear, a history book open on his lap. “This is a shocking new development,” he says dryly, mostly because Blaine has been complaining about hunger pains like clockwork for the past two hours. But he feels bad about the pout Blaine gives him, so he gestures vaguely to his backpack on the table. “I have carrot sticks in there.”
Blaine pulls a face. “Too health conscious,” he says, and then digs through his pocket for his cell phone. “I’m ordering pizza.”
“You had pizza three nights ago.”
“Don’t care.”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do with you,” Kurt says overdramatically, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingertips. He does have to begrudge him this, though: taking a snack break after three hours of studying the Byzantine Empire is tempting. He peeks over at Blaine through the gaps in his fingers. “Veggie lovers.”
“You had pizza three nights ago,” Blaine mocks, but he’s smiling, so Kurt just rolls his eyes and goes back to his book. He keeps one ear tuned as Blaine asks for half-vegetable, half-meat, and can they put the pepperoni in the shape of a smiley face? before hanging up and propping his feet up on the arm of Kurt’s chair, reporting, “Thirty minutes to an hour.”
“Just enough time to go over the dynasties,” Kurt says, passing over his carefully-created flashcards.
Blaine groans, but he accepts them reluctantly. “When was the Heraclian dynasty?” he asks, and Kurt settles back into his seat and thinks.
Forty-six minutes later (Blaine’s been keeping track of the elapsed time), David knocks on the door and peeks his head into the room. He and some of the other guys are doing calc problems next door. “Pizza boy’s here,” he says, and both Kurt and Blaine clamber to their feet.
“You are not paying,” Blaine says accusingly, trying to edge him out of the way.
Kurt gives him look. “Yes, I am. You paid for dinner yesterday.”
“I’m the one who wanted pizza in the first place.”
“So? If we went by that logic you would pay for everything we ever ate.”
“Not true,” Blaine says, even though it is. “Look, I’ll pay, you tip. Deal?”
“Fine,” Kurt agrees grudgingly, falling in step beside Blaine as they head together towards the front entrance facing the main gates. “But if he’s cute I’m tipping him extra.”
Blaine slips his fingers into Kurt’s easily, casually. He gives his hand a squeeze. “For his sake, he better not be cute.”
Dalton’s doors are locked at night, and Blaine has to slide his ID through the detector before it clicks and grants them access to open. Kurt’s expecting their delivery boy to be standing on the other side of the solid oak, cardboard box in hand, but he’s not expecting said delivery boy to be someone that he recognizes, let alone Sam Evans.
But it is. Sam Evans.
“Sam?” Kurt says, surprised, and he thinks he sees a trace of panic flash in Sam’s eyes before it disappears, just as quickly as it’d come. His hair is longer, hanging limply around his face, and he smells like pizza. There are splatters of sauce on his shirt. Kurt resists the urge to comment.
“Kurt,” Sam says awkwardly, lowering the box like he’s not sure what to do with it. “Blaine. Hey. I - I wasn’t expecting you guys. I mean, I knew you went here, but you obviously aren’t the only ones who go here-”
“We’re not,” Blaine confirms. “It’d be a pretty pointless school otherwise.”
Sam laughs, but it’s the polite kind of laugh, empty and forced. “I guess I should-” he says, and passes the box over to Blaine, then shifts from foot to foot in that way that clearly says it’s weird to ask someone you used to go to school with and his boyfriend for their money.
But Blaine cuts through the awkwardness and passes a twenty over. “How long have you been delivering pizza?”
“It’s only been about a week now,” Sam says, and starts rummaging through his pockets for change.
“Why the new job?” Kurt asks, mostly just making conversation. He likes Sam. Genuinely likes him, even if they’re not the ‘send daily text update’ kind of friends. “Saving up for Nationals?”
“Uhh.” Sam looks between the two of them carefully and then drops his gaze to the ground, like all he really wants is to take his money and go. “Sort of. Something like that,” he says, and that’s when Kurt realizes that something’s not right, that there’s something Sam’s not telling them. He’s not going to pry into his private life. But most high school students don’t take night jobs in the middle of the semester unless they’ve got something they’re trying to pay for, and as far as Kurt knows (because Rachel likes to keep him up-to-date on gossip), he doesn’t have a new girlfriend.
“Hey Kurt?” Sam says suddenly, and when he meets his gaze, he looks anxious and stressed out, tense around the edges. He tugs at one of his sleeves. “Could you not tell anyone about this?”
“About you coming to Dalton?” Kurt asks, tilting his head in confusion.
“About me delivering pizzas,” Sam says, and Kurt thinks oh.
“Of course I won’t.”
“Your secret’s safe with us,” Blaine adds, smiling and drawing a sincere cross over his heart.
“Thanks guys. I should probably get going. I have three more houses to hit up.” Sam gestures over his shoulder towards his parked car. The bumper’s dented, and the hood looks about five seconds away from collapsing in. “I’ll, uh, I guess I’ll see you around.” He pushes his hair back away from his face and turns to walk off, but Kurt makes a snap decision and bursts out with, “Sam, wait!”
Sam turns back around.
“I forgot to give you your tip,” Kurt says, and he takes two steps forward and fishes a twenty out of his back pocket. He’s got a five already clutched in his hand, ready to go, but he just - for whatever reason, he’s pretty sure Sam needs it more than he does. He probably would’ve blown it on hair accessories, anyway.
Sam doesn’t look at the bill before shoving it into his pocket. They’ll both pretend that it’s not what it is, that it’s totally normal to tip your pizza boy more than what the pizza cost, that Sam will spend it on fast food and Mountain Dew like any other normal teenager. “Thanks,” Sam says, squaring his shoulders. He rubs the back of his neck. “I mean it.”
“No problem,” Kurt says, waving him on. He’s not going to draw this out, make a scene out of nothing. He gives him a little salute as he goes. “You better hurry. Remember, store policy: after an hour it’s free.”
***
Sam’s address isn’t difficult to track down. Rachel had made a phone tree sometime last semester, and though at least ten of the fifteen copies had ended up in the trashcan, Kurt’s is somehow still miraculously folded into his dayplanner, right in the back. He doesn’t know why this is important to him, and it’s probably nothing, but it presses at the back of his mind until his concentration is shot. His first impulse is to call Finn up and see what he knows, but Finn would probably let it slip to Rachel and Rachel would inadvertently tell the entire Glee club which would mean that by lunchtime the whole school would know, and Kurt Hummel is not about to spread a false rumor about Sam Evans around McKinley. He knows what it feels like to be talked about behind your back. He knows it all too well.
So he takes matters into his own hands, and after Warblers practice on a Thursday he types the address into his GPS and drives to the street that Sam’s house is supposedly on. He stops outside a beautiful two-story ranch, with a wraparound porch and bay windows, and he parks on the sidestreet and climbs out of his car, and that’s when he sees the sign in the front yard, the notice from the bank in big block letters: FORECLOSURE.
The lights inside are all turned off and there’s a heavy lockbox placed over the doorknob. He fools himself into thinking he’s at the wrong house, the wrong street, maybe the wrong part of the city - but something inside him knows he’s not, and he gets back into his car and drives and drives and drives and stares at his hands on the wheel and wonders, with a painstaking ache in his gut, where Sam is living now.
***
Blaine’s the one who suggests he should stalk him.
“I’m not saying stalk,” Blaine argues for probably the fifth time that day, and he looks hilarious when his eyebrows are drawn in like that. Kurt suppresses a smile, because the topic at hand is not funny. “I’m saying that if you actually want to do something other than wonder and stress out about this, you have to take the initiative and confront him. But nicely. Why isn’t there a word for a pleasant confrontation?”
“Because if it were pleasant you wouldn’t need a confrontation?” Kurt sighs and sits down on the corner of the mattress. “Look, Blaine, he’s obviously hiding something, and he obviously doesn’t want help from me or anyone else for that matter-”
“And you and I both know how much keeping a secret sucks,” Blaine interrupts. “And how hard it is to do things on your own. And how much harder it is to set your pride aside and ask for help, even when you really need it.”
Kurt frowns. He hates when Blaine’s right.
“It could be a drug deal gone bad,” he points out, just to be contradictory. “Or maybe he couldn’t afford to pay off an overpriced hooker. Maybe he’s trying to save up money to hire a hitman-”
“Wow, what interesting theories. With thoughts like that, I have no idea why Sam would try to keep anything a secret.”
They lock eyes; Kurt gives him a look.
“I should stalk him, shouldn’t I?” Kurt says, relenting, because he’s known all along that his guilt conscience wasn’t going to let him drop this. It’s not asking the question that’s worrying him; he’s wormed his way unwanted into situations before, he’s stuck his nose places it didn’t belong. He has no problem putting himself out there. It’s the answer that he’s afraid of. It’s finding out that something is horribly, horribly wrong and not knowing what to do to make it better. It’s not having the right words to say or, worse, providing the wrong sort of comfort. He barely knows Sam. He’s never been good at being unselfish.
“Once again,” Blaine says, climbing towards him on the bed, “I’m not saying stalk. Just… maybe tomorrow night we could go to dinner at Steak 'n Shake.”
Kurt lifts an eyebrow and tries to disguise his grimace. Tries, but fails. “Steak 'n Shake?”
“You know. The one that just so happens to be conveniently located right next to the pizza place Sam works at.”
“Ahhh. How conspiratory of you.” He reaches down and idly traces the outline of Blaine’s hand with his fingertips. “But I am so not eating greasy, cheap fast food. Not even for the goodwill of Sam Evans.”
“Fine.” Blaine curls his palm around Kurt’s thumb. “You can sit there and watch me eat, then.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s the story of our relationship,” Kurt teases, and even if he wanted to say something else he couldn’t, because Blaine suddenly and stealthily attacks him upside the head with a pillow, his pillow, and it musses up his perfectly-coifed hair, and that is just not okay.
So he retaliates. He never claimed to be mature.
***
“I feel so incredibly creepy right now,” Kurt whispers, ducking down in the passenger seat so that only his knees are visible over the dashboard. “Do you even understand how creepy I feel? On a scale of 1 to repeat offenders on To Catch a Predator, I’m pretty sure I’m somewhere along the lines of Peewee Herman with his hand down his pants.”
“You’re much cuter than Peewee Herman,” Blaine offers, presumably trying to be helpful. “Though I wouldn’t object if your hand were-”
Kurt cuts him off with a pointed glare.
“I’m joking!” Blaine says quickly, throwing his hands innocently up in the air. He cranks the driver’s seat back a few inches and scoots down to Kurt’s level, even though he’s staring directly at him and not at the beat-up car across the parking lot, like they’re supposed to be. “This would be better if we had popcorn. Don’t you think? Like a drive-in movie, except-”
“Creepier?”
“I was going to say more romantic.”
Ducking down lower, Kurt reaches out and snatches Blaine’s arm. “There,” he hisses, nodding towards the restaurant. The glass doors swing open and Sam Evans emerges into the darkened parking lot, struggling into a hoodie as he walks. Even from the opposite side of the street Kurt can see how tired he looks, the dark circles under his eyes. He heads straight for his car but pauses outside the driver’s door, rifling through his pockets and coming out with a small wad of cash. Presumably his tip money for the night. He counts it carefully before repocketing it, then unlocks the car and ducks inside. He has to turn the engine three times before it starts, and Kurt waits until he’s pulling out of the parking spot before tapping Blaine on the shoulder. “Okay,” he says, and they both return their seats to their upright positions. “Go, but don’t let him see us. Here, pull behind that minivan.”
Blaine does as he’s told, and Kurt’s thankful not for the first time for how quietly his car runs, how smoothly it kicks to life. He pulls out and onto the street, keeping a good three-car distance between his and Sam’s, turning when Sam does, braking when Sam does. Kurt’s never tailed anyone before. It’s kind of thrilling, and Kurt vaguely wishes he’d thought to wear something more occasion-appropriate, because it’s not every day that you can dress like James Dean and get away with it.
“I think he’s pulling off,” Blaine says, tapping his brakes and steadily slowing down. Sure enough, Sam’s blinkers flash on a moment later, and he turns left - into a motel parking lot.
“Is he…” Kurt glances at Blaine, and then points to a shady McDonald’s across the street. “Here, pull in over there. We should be able to…”
They can just barely see beneath a cluster of trees as Sam pulls into a parking spot and climbs out. A second later, one of the motel room doors opens and two children in pajamas come sprinting out; even though it’s nighttime, probably too late for them to be awake, they throw themselves at Sam and he grabs them both around the waist in a tackle, picking them up with surprising ease for a guy who’d looked like he was about to keel over ten minutes ago. The kids are blond, like Sam, and Kurt watches as he carries them both back into the room they’d burst out of, and then the door closes behind them.
Both Kurt and Blaine are silent for a moment.
“Do you think-” Kurt starts, except that he’s apprehensive to finish that sentence, because saying the words out loud makes them real, and to make them real means facing a truth he’s not sure he knows how to face. He swallows and forces himself to continue. “Do you think that’s where he’s living?”
“Well I don’t think that’s a whorehouse,” Blaine says helpfully, but then his smile wanes. “But yeah. Maybe. At least for right now. Why else would those kids be there?”
Kurt rubs his forehead out of nervous habit; he’s not sure what to make of this new information. That it’s not just Sam but two kids under the age of ten, and presumably his parents too - he’s never personally stayed in what his dad calls a ‘fleabag motel,’ but he’s read books about them. And this one seems pretty typical. The neon sign out front is old and flickering, so that it reads American Family TEL, and the only thing it boasts are kitchens - not cable TV, not wifi, not even an outdoor pool. The building itself looks rundown and rickety, with chipped paint and crooked blinds. Some of the windows have been apparently broken and replaced with duct tape. It’s the sort of place Kurt would normally refuse to step foot inside.
“Let’s leave,” Kurt says suddenly, his chest feeling painfully tight. He stares out the window even though he can feel Blaine’s concerned gaze on the side of his face, but luckily, Blaine doesn’t argue. He puts his hand over Kurt’s for a brief second, but then he pulls away to restart the car, and they drive back in total silence.
***
Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Kurt lifts his hand and knocks.
He knows Sam’s home because his car’s in the parking lot, the same spot as yesterday. The pizza had been a last minute addition, the cardboard box cradled carefully under one arm as he waits. He hopes this isn’t weird. He doesn’t want this to be weird.
There’s about a ten second delay, and then the door opens, and Sam’s blinking at him from inside the motel room, that familiar flash of panic in his eyes, like he’s caught off-guard and doesn’t know what to do.
Kurt holds the pizza out as a peace offering. “Hey.”
Sam’s eyes travel from his face to the food and then back up again. He keeps his grip on the door firm. “Hey,” he says back, but faintly, like maybe he’s not sure this is real. “Um, wow, deja vu. Except in reverse.”
“I’m not a pizza boy,” Kurt says with a brief smile. “That outfit wouldn’t work for my complexion.” He pauses. “It looks great on you, though!”
Sam laughs and finally steps out and lets the door close softly behind him. “How’d you find me?”
Kurt’s not quite ready to own up to his creepiness, so he offers up a shrug. “I know somebody who knows somebody. And I know you’re around pizza all the time, but-”
“But I never get to eat any of it,” Sam finishes, taking the box from Kurt and peeking inside. “Can you believe they don’t give free pizza to employees? Total rip-off, right?” He pushes the box back towards Kurt, sobering all of a sudden. “But I can’t take your food.”
“I’m not asking you to take my food,” Kurt says, ignoring it. “I’m asking you to split a pizza with me that will otherwise have to be thrown away, because my dad’s on a special diet and he has the willpower of a five-year-old. Are your brother and sister here?”
Sam licks his lips. “How’d you know I have a brother and sister?”
“Is that important?” Kurt waves the matter away with utter nonchalance. He’s been accused of encroaching on someone’s personal space before - and that’s not what this is, even if Sam does have nice lips and pretty eyes. This is different. Completely different. He rubs the back of his neck and softens, lowering his voice. “How long have you been living in a motel, Sam?”
There’s a flicker of discomfort on Sam’s face, and Kurt’s heart aches just a little. “Just a few days,” he says. “We’re just staying here until my parents land back on their feet.” He hesitates a second. “My dad lost his job. And my mom never got a job, because my dad’s was supposedly enough to support the family and then some.” He laughs, but it was the sad, empty shell of a laugh. “Then he gets fired and - turns out, no one’s hiring, and they’re both overqualified for all of the jobs that are. Tough break, right? Anyway, that’s where they are now… they look for jobs when I’m not working, and I stay home - here, stay here - with Stevie and Stacy.”
Kurt swallows. “So when do you get to do what you want to do?”
Sam looks at him for a moment, his lips pressed together. “This is what I want to do,” he says, his voice a touch quieter. “I want to help my family. I do what I can.”
“That’s amazingly unselfish of you.”
This time, the smile actually reaches Sam’s eyes. “Do you want to come in?” he asks, finally stepping aside and pushing the door back open. “I was just about to make sandwiches for the kids, but that pizza smells pretty amazing. And also, it’s almost 8 o’clock, which means Mrs. Johnson three doors down is about to start screaming at her cheating husband.”
Sure enough, as soon as Kurt steps into the motel room, a door swings open and a shrill voice yells, “You think you can bring that TRAMP to OUR BURGER KING-?”
They quickly slam the door.
The room itself is… pretty dismal. Kurt does a quick scan with his eyes, noting the two cramped beds, the boxes stacked against the walls. He forces a smile onto his face when he sees the two children from before, laying on their stomachs on the floor with a checkerboard between them.
“King me,” Stevie says, and then, “Sam, I’m staaaarving.”
“Starving, huh?” Sam grins, reaching down to ruffle his hair. “Well, it’s your lucky day. We’re having pizza.”
That seems to perk them both up at once. “Pizza?” Stacy says, climbing to her knees and looking at the box with wide eyes. “We never get pizza anymore.”
“You better say thank you to my friend Kurt, then. He’s the one that brought it.”
“Thank you, Kurt,” Stacy says immediately, crawling over and wrapping her little arms around Kurt’s legs. He laughs and touches one of her pigtails gingerly.
Stevie, on the other hand, doesn’t look quite so trusting. “You never bring friends over anymore,” he says to Sam, like something sneaky’s going on here.
“Yeah, well, today I did. Now go wash your hands.”
The two kids scamper off towards the bathroom and Sam checks to make sure they’re actually emerging their hands into the running faucet before setting the pizza down on the corner of the mattress. “You know you didn’t have to do this, right?” he says without turning around, and Kurt rolls his eyes.
“I know. But I wanted to.” He wraps his fingers around Sam’s elbow, tugging him forward, forcing him to look at him. “I want to help you, Sam. Anything I can do. Do you - is there anything that you need?”
Sam chews on his lower lip for a moment, like he’s indecisive, doesn’t want to give in. “Well… the only thing is, we don’t have a washer or dryer, and we can’t really afford to use the ones at the Laundromat, so we’re wearing the same clothes and-”
“I,” Kurt interrupts, “was just about to do a major wardrobe overhaul. Seriously, I have more clothes than I know what to do with - especially considering I wear a uniform to school every day, I was planning on getting rid of a bunch of stuff anyway-” He steps back to survey Sam critically. “You’re bigger than me, so some of my tighter-fitting clothing won’t work - and I don’t think you could pull off half of my designer things, no offense-”
“None taken,” Sam says, biting back a smile.
“-but I do think I have some things that will complement you nicely. I could bring them over tomorrow.”
“Kurt, you really don’t have to.”
“You keep saying that,” Kurt says, and just because he feels like Sam could use it, because the kids in the bathroom are giggling and splashing water at each other, he pulls Sam in for a quick hug. Sam tenses at first but then almost visibly relaxes once Kurt’s arms circle around him, and he hugs him back, like it’s been a while since he’s had a proper one, a while since anyone’s been this close.
“Thanks,” he mumbles, giving him a little squeeze before letting go, and then goes to scold his brother and sister for making a mess, but fails mostly because of their puppydog faces and their pouty lower lips, a trait that seems to run in the family.
Kurt had honestly planned to drop the pizza off and go, but Sam insists he stay and eat a slice or two, and then Stacy asks if he’ll have a tea party with them, and how can he say no to that? so the four of them don imaginary oversized hats (Sam didn’t want to wear a hat at first, but Stacy makes him, so his is the floppiest and gaudiest of all) and then Stevie gets bored and plays with trucks instead, and then Stacy falls asleep with her teacup in hand, so Kurt excuses himself so Sam can put the kids to bed.
“Thanks for coming over, Kurt,” Sam says, meaning it, and he scoops his little sister up into his arms and gives her a kiss on the forehead.
“I’ll swing by tomorrow,” Kurt promises, letting himself out.
He sits in his driver’s seat for a long time before starting the ignition and pulling out of the parking lot. His mind is crowded with thoughts. At least he doesn’t feel quite so sad anymore. Sam’s family might’ve been running low on money, but they were definitely not running low on love. Somehow, Kurt thinks, that’s worth so much more.
***
Blaine comes over to give him a backrub that he doesn’t deserve, and he brings some of his dad’s old jackets with him.
“He’ll never notice they’re missing,” he explains, pushing Kurt down on the mattress and crawling over to settle down on top of his legs. He pushes his thumbs into Kurt’s shoulderblades and Kurt groans into his pillow. “And Sam needs them more than he does, I’m sure. I was going to bring some of my things but I realized-”
“That you’re three feet shorter than him?” Kurt supplies, and Blaine digs his fingers in a little harder just to Kurt squirm.
“Never insult a guy you’re trapped beneath,” Blaine grins, but then he bends his neck forward and kisses the spot he’d just assaulted as an apology. “So you’re going back over there later?”
“Yeah.” Kurt rolls his shoulders beneath Blaine’s hands, sighing quietly.
“Why don’t you invite him to come hang out with us?”
Kurt glances back at him. “What?”
“Tonight. Instead of going there, ask him to come here. We can put a Disney movie on for the kids and hang out. You did say it’s been a while since he could do something selfish.”
“And you’re assuming that by giving him the night off what he’d want to do is hang out with us.”
“Why not?” Blaine gives his hips a little squeeze, making Kurt wriggle around beneath his fingers. “I have it on good authority that we are, in fact, awesome.”
Kurt rolls over onto his back in one smooth motion, upsetting Blaine’s balance for a moment and sending him down onto his hands and knees. He grins wolfishly when Kurt sneaks a hand around his waist and presses flat against the small of his back. “I think that’s an excellent idea,” he concedes, pressing a short kiss against his lips, chaste and brief. “I think you’re an excellent boyfriend.”
“And I think you’re an excellent human being,” Blaine counters, tangling his feet into Kurt’s. “And that Sam Evans is lucky to have you as a friend.”
***
Sam shows up on his doorstep just after 7:30, holding both of his siblings by their hands. He smiles sort of sheepishly when Kurt opens the door, and when Blaine says, “I hear that there’s a princess in our midst,” and produces a tiara out of thin air - it used to belong to Kurt, circa 1996 - Stacy shrieks and giggles as he places it carefully on top of her head. They eat homemade tacos and Stevie spills salsa all over the kitchen floor, but they just laugh and mop it up and tell him not to worry about it, seriously, it happens with Kurt’s brother all the time. Afterwards, they put Mulan into the basement DVD player and throw some blankets on the ground for the kids to lay on, and Blaine, Sam, and Kurt sit around talking about anything that comes to mind: school, sports, the latest New Directions gossip.
“I think you should come back, Kurt,” Sam says, sprawled out with his back braced against the sofa. “I mean, no offense Blaine. But we could really use you.”
Kurt smiles. It’s nice to think about, nice to feel wanted, even if he’s not sure that’s an actual possibility. “We’ll see what happens,” he says, and then, “I think the princess fell asleep.”
Sure enough, Stacy’s out cold on the blanket, and Stevie’s dangerously close, rubbing blearily at his eyes. “I should probably get them home,” Sam says, glancing at the clock on the wall. “Mom and Dad’ll be back soon anyway.”
Blaine offers to help carry them out to the car; he carefully scoops Stacy up in his arms, wrapping her in one of the blankets, and Kurt holds the door while Sam grabs Stevie. They put them gingerly into the back seat and buckle up and then Sam stands back and looks at them for a second. “Thanks guys,” he says. “This was really cool.”
“Come back anytime,” Kurt says, “and don’t forget, don’t wear that sweater with anything but earth tones.”
Sam laughs quietly under his breath. “Riight.” He climbs into the driver’s side and glances back to double check on his siblings, then leans across the passenger’s seat and gives them a brief wave. “See you guys later,” he says, and they stand back as he starts his car (on the second try, this time) and pulls out of the driveway and onto the street.
Blaine wraps his arm around Kurt’s waist as they watch him go, his fingers slipping under Kurt’s jacket, and Kurt idly plays with the loose curls at the base of Blaine’s neck.
After a minute, Blaine pulls away enough to look at him. “I’m starving,” he announces, and Kurt just rolls his eyes and leads him towards the house.
fin.
by novelized. ~5000 words.
pairing: kurt/blaine + sam evans friendship.
summary: the deleted scenes from rumours. sam delivers a pizza to dalton.
rating: pg.
“I,” Blaine announces, “am starving.”
Kurt glances over from his spot on the sofa, a pencil tucked behind his ear, a history book open on his lap. “This is a shocking new development,” he says dryly, mostly because Blaine has been complaining about hunger pains like clockwork for the past two hours. But he feels bad about the pout Blaine gives him, so he gestures vaguely to his backpack on the table. “I have carrot sticks in there.”
Blaine pulls a face. “Too health conscious,” he says, and then digs through his pocket for his cell phone. “I’m ordering pizza.”
“You had pizza three nights ago.”
“Don’t care.”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do with you,” Kurt says overdramatically, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingertips. He does have to begrudge him this, though: taking a snack break after three hours of studying the Byzantine Empire is tempting. He peeks over at Blaine through the gaps in his fingers. “Veggie lovers.”
“You had pizza three nights ago,” Blaine mocks, but he’s smiling, so Kurt just rolls his eyes and goes back to his book. He keeps one ear tuned as Blaine asks for half-vegetable, half-meat, and can they put the pepperoni in the shape of a smiley face? before hanging up and propping his feet up on the arm of Kurt’s chair, reporting, “Thirty minutes to an hour.”
“Just enough time to go over the dynasties,” Kurt says, passing over his carefully-created flashcards.
Blaine groans, but he accepts them reluctantly. “When was the Heraclian dynasty?” he asks, and Kurt settles back into his seat and thinks.
Forty-six minutes later (Blaine’s been keeping track of the elapsed time), David knocks on the door and peeks his head into the room. He and some of the other guys are doing calc problems next door. “Pizza boy’s here,” he says, and both Kurt and Blaine clamber to their feet.
“You are not paying,” Blaine says accusingly, trying to edge him out of the way.
Kurt gives him look. “Yes, I am. You paid for dinner yesterday.”
“I’m the one who wanted pizza in the first place.”
“So? If we went by that logic you would pay for everything we ever ate.”
“Not true,” Blaine says, even though it is. “Look, I’ll pay, you tip. Deal?”
“Fine,” Kurt agrees grudgingly, falling in step beside Blaine as they head together towards the front entrance facing the main gates. “But if he’s cute I’m tipping him extra.”
Blaine slips his fingers into Kurt’s easily, casually. He gives his hand a squeeze. “For his sake, he better not be cute.”
Dalton’s doors are locked at night, and Blaine has to slide his ID through the detector before it clicks and grants them access to open. Kurt’s expecting their delivery boy to be standing on the other side of the solid oak, cardboard box in hand, but he’s not expecting said delivery boy to be someone that he recognizes, let alone Sam Evans.
But it is. Sam Evans.
“Sam?” Kurt says, surprised, and he thinks he sees a trace of panic flash in Sam’s eyes before it disappears, just as quickly as it’d come. His hair is longer, hanging limply around his face, and he smells like pizza. There are splatters of sauce on his shirt. Kurt resists the urge to comment.
“Kurt,” Sam says awkwardly, lowering the box like he’s not sure what to do with it. “Blaine. Hey. I - I wasn’t expecting you guys. I mean, I knew you went here, but you obviously aren’t the only ones who go here-”
“We’re not,” Blaine confirms. “It’d be a pretty pointless school otherwise.”
Sam laughs, but it’s the polite kind of laugh, empty and forced. “I guess I should-” he says, and passes the box over to Blaine, then shifts from foot to foot in that way that clearly says it’s weird to ask someone you used to go to school with and his boyfriend for their money.
But Blaine cuts through the awkwardness and passes a twenty over. “How long have you been delivering pizza?”
“It’s only been about a week now,” Sam says, and starts rummaging through his pockets for change.
“Why the new job?” Kurt asks, mostly just making conversation. He likes Sam. Genuinely likes him, even if they’re not the ‘send daily text update’ kind of friends. “Saving up for Nationals?”
“Uhh.” Sam looks between the two of them carefully and then drops his gaze to the ground, like all he really wants is to take his money and go. “Sort of. Something like that,” he says, and that’s when Kurt realizes that something’s not right, that there’s something Sam’s not telling them. He’s not going to pry into his private life. But most high school students don’t take night jobs in the middle of the semester unless they’ve got something they’re trying to pay for, and as far as Kurt knows (because Rachel likes to keep him up-to-date on gossip), he doesn’t have a new girlfriend.
“Hey Kurt?” Sam says suddenly, and when he meets his gaze, he looks anxious and stressed out, tense around the edges. He tugs at one of his sleeves. “Could you not tell anyone about this?”
“About you coming to Dalton?” Kurt asks, tilting his head in confusion.
“About me delivering pizzas,” Sam says, and Kurt thinks oh.
“Of course I won’t.”
“Your secret’s safe with us,” Blaine adds, smiling and drawing a sincere cross over his heart.
“Thanks guys. I should probably get going. I have three more houses to hit up.” Sam gestures over his shoulder towards his parked car. The bumper’s dented, and the hood looks about five seconds away from collapsing in. “I’ll, uh, I guess I’ll see you around.” He pushes his hair back away from his face and turns to walk off, but Kurt makes a snap decision and bursts out with, “Sam, wait!”
Sam turns back around.
“I forgot to give you your tip,” Kurt says, and he takes two steps forward and fishes a twenty out of his back pocket. He’s got a five already clutched in his hand, ready to go, but he just - for whatever reason, he’s pretty sure Sam needs it more than he does. He probably would’ve blown it on hair accessories, anyway.
Sam doesn’t look at the bill before shoving it into his pocket. They’ll both pretend that it’s not what it is, that it’s totally normal to tip your pizza boy more than what the pizza cost, that Sam will spend it on fast food and Mountain Dew like any other normal teenager. “Thanks,” Sam says, squaring his shoulders. He rubs the back of his neck. “I mean it.”
“No problem,” Kurt says, waving him on. He’s not going to draw this out, make a scene out of nothing. He gives him a little salute as he goes. “You better hurry. Remember, store policy: after an hour it’s free.”
***
Sam’s address isn’t difficult to track down. Rachel had made a phone tree sometime last semester, and though at least ten of the fifteen copies had ended up in the trashcan, Kurt’s is somehow still miraculously folded into his dayplanner, right in the back. He doesn’t know why this is important to him, and it’s probably nothing, but it presses at the back of his mind until his concentration is shot. His first impulse is to call Finn up and see what he knows, but Finn would probably let it slip to Rachel and Rachel would inadvertently tell the entire Glee club which would mean that by lunchtime the whole school would know, and Kurt Hummel is not about to spread a false rumor about Sam Evans around McKinley. He knows what it feels like to be talked about behind your back. He knows it all too well.
So he takes matters into his own hands, and after Warblers practice on a Thursday he types the address into his GPS and drives to the street that Sam’s house is supposedly on. He stops outside a beautiful two-story ranch, with a wraparound porch and bay windows, and he parks on the sidestreet and climbs out of his car, and that’s when he sees the sign in the front yard, the notice from the bank in big block letters: FORECLOSURE.
The lights inside are all turned off and there’s a heavy lockbox placed over the doorknob. He fools himself into thinking he’s at the wrong house, the wrong street, maybe the wrong part of the city - but something inside him knows he’s not, and he gets back into his car and drives and drives and drives and stares at his hands on the wheel and wonders, with a painstaking ache in his gut, where Sam is living now.
***
Blaine’s the one who suggests he should stalk him.
“I’m not saying stalk,” Blaine argues for probably the fifth time that day, and he looks hilarious when his eyebrows are drawn in like that. Kurt suppresses a smile, because the topic at hand is not funny. “I’m saying that if you actually want to do something other than wonder and stress out about this, you have to take the initiative and confront him. But nicely. Why isn’t there a word for a pleasant confrontation?”
“Because if it were pleasant you wouldn’t need a confrontation?” Kurt sighs and sits down on the corner of the mattress. “Look, Blaine, he’s obviously hiding something, and he obviously doesn’t want help from me or anyone else for that matter-”
“And you and I both know how much keeping a secret sucks,” Blaine interrupts. “And how hard it is to do things on your own. And how much harder it is to set your pride aside and ask for help, even when you really need it.”
Kurt frowns. He hates when Blaine’s right.
“It could be a drug deal gone bad,” he points out, just to be contradictory. “Or maybe he couldn’t afford to pay off an overpriced hooker. Maybe he’s trying to save up money to hire a hitman-”
“Wow, what interesting theories. With thoughts like that, I have no idea why Sam would try to keep anything a secret.”
They lock eyes; Kurt gives him a look.
“I should stalk him, shouldn’t I?” Kurt says, relenting, because he’s known all along that his guilt conscience wasn’t going to let him drop this. It’s not asking the question that’s worrying him; he’s wormed his way unwanted into situations before, he’s stuck his nose places it didn’t belong. He has no problem putting himself out there. It’s the answer that he’s afraid of. It’s finding out that something is horribly, horribly wrong and not knowing what to do to make it better. It’s not having the right words to say or, worse, providing the wrong sort of comfort. He barely knows Sam. He’s never been good at being unselfish.
“Once again,” Blaine says, climbing towards him on the bed, “I’m not saying stalk. Just… maybe tomorrow night we could go to dinner at Steak 'n Shake.”
Kurt lifts an eyebrow and tries to disguise his grimace. Tries, but fails. “Steak 'n Shake?”
“You know. The one that just so happens to be conveniently located right next to the pizza place Sam works at.”
“Ahhh. How conspiratory of you.” He reaches down and idly traces the outline of Blaine’s hand with his fingertips. “But I am so not eating greasy, cheap fast food. Not even for the goodwill of Sam Evans.”
“Fine.” Blaine curls his palm around Kurt’s thumb. “You can sit there and watch me eat, then.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s the story of our relationship,” Kurt teases, and even if he wanted to say something else he couldn’t, because Blaine suddenly and stealthily attacks him upside the head with a pillow, his pillow, and it musses up his perfectly-coifed hair, and that is just not okay.
So he retaliates. He never claimed to be mature.
***
“I feel so incredibly creepy right now,” Kurt whispers, ducking down in the passenger seat so that only his knees are visible over the dashboard. “Do you even understand how creepy I feel? On a scale of 1 to repeat offenders on To Catch a Predator, I’m pretty sure I’m somewhere along the lines of Peewee Herman with his hand down his pants.”
“You’re much cuter than Peewee Herman,” Blaine offers, presumably trying to be helpful. “Though I wouldn’t object if your hand were-”
Kurt cuts him off with a pointed glare.
“I’m joking!” Blaine says quickly, throwing his hands innocently up in the air. He cranks the driver’s seat back a few inches and scoots down to Kurt’s level, even though he’s staring directly at him and not at the beat-up car across the parking lot, like they’re supposed to be. “This would be better if we had popcorn. Don’t you think? Like a drive-in movie, except-”
“Creepier?”
“I was going to say more romantic.”
Ducking down lower, Kurt reaches out and snatches Blaine’s arm. “There,” he hisses, nodding towards the restaurant. The glass doors swing open and Sam Evans emerges into the darkened parking lot, struggling into a hoodie as he walks. Even from the opposite side of the street Kurt can see how tired he looks, the dark circles under his eyes. He heads straight for his car but pauses outside the driver’s door, rifling through his pockets and coming out with a small wad of cash. Presumably his tip money for the night. He counts it carefully before repocketing it, then unlocks the car and ducks inside. He has to turn the engine three times before it starts, and Kurt waits until he’s pulling out of the parking spot before tapping Blaine on the shoulder. “Okay,” he says, and they both return their seats to their upright positions. “Go, but don’t let him see us. Here, pull behind that minivan.”
Blaine does as he’s told, and Kurt’s thankful not for the first time for how quietly his car runs, how smoothly it kicks to life. He pulls out and onto the street, keeping a good three-car distance between his and Sam’s, turning when Sam does, braking when Sam does. Kurt’s never tailed anyone before. It’s kind of thrilling, and Kurt vaguely wishes he’d thought to wear something more occasion-appropriate, because it’s not every day that you can dress like James Dean and get away with it.
“I think he’s pulling off,” Blaine says, tapping his brakes and steadily slowing down. Sure enough, Sam’s blinkers flash on a moment later, and he turns left - into a motel parking lot.
“Is he…” Kurt glances at Blaine, and then points to a shady McDonald’s across the street. “Here, pull in over there. We should be able to…”
They can just barely see beneath a cluster of trees as Sam pulls into a parking spot and climbs out. A second later, one of the motel room doors opens and two children in pajamas come sprinting out; even though it’s nighttime, probably too late for them to be awake, they throw themselves at Sam and he grabs them both around the waist in a tackle, picking them up with surprising ease for a guy who’d looked like he was about to keel over ten minutes ago. The kids are blond, like Sam, and Kurt watches as he carries them both back into the room they’d burst out of, and then the door closes behind them.
Both Kurt and Blaine are silent for a moment.
“Do you think-” Kurt starts, except that he’s apprehensive to finish that sentence, because saying the words out loud makes them real, and to make them real means facing a truth he’s not sure he knows how to face. He swallows and forces himself to continue. “Do you think that’s where he’s living?”
“Well I don’t think that’s a whorehouse,” Blaine says helpfully, but then his smile wanes. “But yeah. Maybe. At least for right now. Why else would those kids be there?”
Kurt rubs his forehead out of nervous habit; he’s not sure what to make of this new information. That it’s not just Sam but two kids under the age of ten, and presumably his parents too - he’s never personally stayed in what his dad calls a ‘fleabag motel,’ but he’s read books about them. And this one seems pretty typical. The neon sign out front is old and flickering, so that it reads American Family TEL, and the only thing it boasts are kitchens - not cable TV, not wifi, not even an outdoor pool. The building itself looks rundown and rickety, with chipped paint and crooked blinds. Some of the windows have been apparently broken and replaced with duct tape. It’s the sort of place Kurt would normally refuse to step foot inside.
“Let’s leave,” Kurt says suddenly, his chest feeling painfully tight. He stares out the window even though he can feel Blaine’s concerned gaze on the side of his face, but luckily, Blaine doesn’t argue. He puts his hand over Kurt’s for a brief second, but then he pulls away to restart the car, and they drive back in total silence.
***
Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Kurt lifts his hand and knocks.
He knows Sam’s home because his car’s in the parking lot, the same spot as yesterday. The pizza had been a last minute addition, the cardboard box cradled carefully under one arm as he waits. He hopes this isn’t weird. He doesn’t want this to be weird.
There’s about a ten second delay, and then the door opens, and Sam’s blinking at him from inside the motel room, that familiar flash of panic in his eyes, like he’s caught off-guard and doesn’t know what to do.
Kurt holds the pizza out as a peace offering. “Hey.”
Sam’s eyes travel from his face to the food and then back up again. He keeps his grip on the door firm. “Hey,” he says back, but faintly, like maybe he’s not sure this is real. “Um, wow, deja vu. Except in reverse.”
“I’m not a pizza boy,” Kurt says with a brief smile. “That outfit wouldn’t work for my complexion.” He pauses. “It looks great on you, though!”
Sam laughs and finally steps out and lets the door close softly behind him. “How’d you find me?”
Kurt’s not quite ready to own up to his creepiness, so he offers up a shrug. “I know somebody who knows somebody. And I know you’re around pizza all the time, but-”
“But I never get to eat any of it,” Sam finishes, taking the box from Kurt and peeking inside. “Can you believe they don’t give free pizza to employees? Total rip-off, right?” He pushes the box back towards Kurt, sobering all of a sudden. “But I can’t take your food.”
“I’m not asking you to take my food,” Kurt says, ignoring it. “I’m asking you to split a pizza with me that will otherwise have to be thrown away, because my dad’s on a special diet and he has the willpower of a five-year-old. Are your brother and sister here?”
Sam licks his lips. “How’d you know I have a brother and sister?”
“Is that important?” Kurt waves the matter away with utter nonchalance. He’s been accused of encroaching on someone’s personal space before - and that’s not what this is, even if Sam does have nice lips and pretty eyes. This is different. Completely different. He rubs the back of his neck and softens, lowering his voice. “How long have you been living in a motel, Sam?”
There’s a flicker of discomfort on Sam’s face, and Kurt’s heart aches just a little. “Just a few days,” he says. “We’re just staying here until my parents land back on their feet.” He hesitates a second. “My dad lost his job. And my mom never got a job, because my dad’s was supposedly enough to support the family and then some.” He laughs, but it was the sad, empty shell of a laugh. “Then he gets fired and - turns out, no one’s hiring, and they’re both overqualified for all of the jobs that are. Tough break, right? Anyway, that’s where they are now… they look for jobs when I’m not working, and I stay home - here, stay here - with Stevie and Stacy.”
Kurt swallows. “So when do you get to do what you want to do?”
Sam looks at him for a moment, his lips pressed together. “This is what I want to do,” he says, his voice a touch quieter. “I want to help my family. I do what I can.”
“That’s amazingly unselfish of you.”
This time, the smile actually reaches Sam’s eyes. “Do you want to come in?” he asks, finally stepping aside and pushing the door back open. “I was just about to make sandwiches for the kids, but that pizza smells pretty amazing. And also, it’s almost 8 o’clock, which means Mrs. Johnson three doors down is about to start screaming at her cheating husband.”
Sure enough, as soon as Kurt steps into the motel room, a door swings open and a shrill voice yells, “You think you can bring that TRAMP to OUR BURGER KING-?”
They quickly slam the door.
The room itself is… pretty dismal. Kurt does a quick scan with his eyes, noting the two cramped beds, the boxes stacked against the walls. He forces a smile onto his face when he sees the two children from before, laying on their stomachs on the floor with a checkerboard between them.
“King me,” Stevie says, and then, “Sam, I’m staaaarving.”
“Starving, huh?” Sam grins, reaching down to ruffle his hair. “Well, it’s your lucky day. We’re having pizza.”
That seems to perk them both up at once. “Pizza?” Stacy says, climbing to her knees and looking at the box with wide eyes. “We never get pizza anymore.”
“You better say thank you to my friend Kurt, then. He’s the one that brought it.”
“Thank you, Kurt,” Stacy says immediately, crawling over and wrapping her little arms around Kurt’s legs. He laughs and touches one of her pigtails gingerly.
Stevie, on the other hand, doesn’t look quite so trusting. “You never bring friends over anymore,” he says to Sam, like something sneaky’s going on here.
“Yeah, well, today I did. Now go wash your hands.”
The two kids scamper off towards the bathroom and Sam checks to make sure they’re actually emerging their hands into the running faucet before setting the pizza down on the corner of the mattress. “You know you didn’t have to do this, right?” he says without turning around, and Kurt rolls his eyes.
“I know. But I wanted to.” He wraps his fingers around Sam’s elbow, tugging him forward, forcing him to look at him. “I want to help you, Sam. Anything I can do. Do you - is there anything that you need?”
Sam chews on his lower lip for a moment, like he’s indecisive, doesn’t want to give in. “Well… the only thing is, we don’t have a washer or dryer, and we can’t really afford to use the ones at the Laundromat, so we’re wearing the same clothes and-”
“I,” Kurt interrupts, “was just about to do a major wardrobe overhaul. Seriously, I have more clothes than I know what to do with - especially considering I wear a uniform to school every day, I was planning on getting rid of a bunch of stuff anyway-” He steps back to survey Sam critically. “You’re bigger than me, so some of my tighter-fitting clothing won’t work - and I don’t think you could pull off half of my designer things, no offense-”
“None taken,” Sam says, biting back a smile.
“-but I do think I have some things that will complement you nicely. I could bring them over tomorrow.”
“Kurt, you really don’t have to.”
“You keep saying that,” Kurt says, and just because he feels like Sam could use it, because the kids in the bathroom are giggling and splashing water at each other, he pulls Sam in for a quick hug. Sam tenses at first but then almost visibly relaxes once Kurt’s arms circle around him, and he hugs him back, like it’s been a while since he’s had a proper one, a while since anyone’s been this close.
“Thanks,” he mumbles, giving him a little squeeze before letting go, and then goes to scold his brother and sister for making a mess, but fails mostly because of their puppydog faces and their pouty lower lips, a trait that seems to run in the family.
Kurt had honestly planned to drop the pizza off and go, but Sam insists he stay and eat a slice or two, and then Stacy asks if he’ll have a tea party with them, and how can he say no to that? so the four of them don imaginary oversized hats (Sam didn’t want to wear a hat at first, but Stacy makes him, so his is the floppiest and gaudiest of all) and then Stevie gets bored and plays with trucks instead, and then Stacy falls asleep with her teacup in hand, so Kurt excuses himself so Sam can put the kids to bed.
“Thanks for coming over, Kurt,” Sam says, meaning it, and he scoops his little sister up into his arms and gives her a kiss on the forehead.
“I’ll swing by tomorrow,” Kurt promises, letting himself out.
He sits in his driver’s seat for a long time before starting the ignition and pulling out of the parking lot. His mind is crowded with thoughts. At least he doesn’t feel quite so sad anymore. Sam’s family might’ve been running low on money, but they were definitely not running low on love. Somehow, Kurt thinks, that’s worth so much more.
***
Blaine comes over to give him a backrub that he doesn’t deserve, and he brings some of his dad’s old jackets with him.
“He’ll never notice they’re missing,” he explains, pushing Kurt down on the mattress and crawling over to settle down on top of his legs. He pushes his thumbs into Kurt’s shoulderblades and Kurt groans into his pillow. “And Sam needs them more than he does, I’m sure. I was going to bring some of my things but I realized-”
“That you’re three feet shorter than him?” Kurt supplies, and Blaine digs his fingers in a little harder just to Kurt squirm.
“Never insult a guy you’re trapped beneath,” Blaine grins, but then he bends his neck forward and kisses the spot he’d just assaulted as an apology. “So you’re going back over there later?”
“Yeah.” Kurt rolls his shoulders beneath Blaine’s hands, sighing quietly.
“Why don’t you invite him to come hang out with us?”
Kurt glances back at him. “What?”
“Tonight. Instead of going there, ask him to come here. We can put a Disney movie on for the kids and hang out. You did say it’s been a while since he could do something selfish.”
“And you’re assuming that by giving him the night off what he’d want to do is hang out with us.”
“Why not?” Blaine gives his hips a little squeeze, making Kurt wriggle around beneath his fingers. “I have it on good authority that we are, in fact, awesome.”
Kurt rolls over onto his back in one smooth motion, upsetting Blaine’s balance for a moment and sending him down onto his hands and knees. He grins wolfishly when Kurt sneaks a hand around his waist and presses flat against the small of his back. “I think that’s an excellent idea,” he concedes, pressing a short kiss against his lips, chaste and brief. “I think you’re an excellent boyfriend.”
“And I think you’re an excellent human being,” Blaine counters, tangling his feet into Kurt’s. “And that Sam Evans is lucky to have you as a friend.”
***
Sam shows up on his doorstep just after 7:30, holding both of his siblings by their hands. He smiles sort of sheepishly when Kurt opens the door, and when Blaine says, “I hear that there’s a princess in our midst,” and produces a tiara out of thin air - it used to belong to Kurt, circa 1996 - Stacy shrieks and giggles as he places it carefully on top of her head. They eat homemade tacos and Stevie spills salsa all over the kitchen floor, but they just laugh and mop it up and tell him not to worry about it, seriously, it happens with Kurt’s brother all the time. Afterwards, they put Mulan into the basement DVD player and throw some blankets on the ground for the kids to lay on, and Blaine, Sam, and Kurt sit around talking about anything that comes to mind: school, sports, the latest New Directions gossip.
“I think you should come back, Kurt,” Sam says, sprawled out with his back braced against the sofa. “I mean, no offense Blaine. But we could really use you.”
Kurt smiles. It’s nice to think about, nice to feel wanted, even if he’s not sure that’s an actual possibility. “We’ll see what happens,” he says, and then, “I think the princess fell asleep.”
Sure enough, Stacy’s out cold on the blanket, and Stevie’s dangerously close, rubbing blearily at his eyes. “I should probably get them home,” Sam says, glancing at the clock on the wall. “Mom and Dad’ll be back soon anyway.”
Blaine offers to help carry them out to the car; he carefully scoops Stacy up in his arms, wrapping her in one of the blankets, and Kurt holds the door while Sam grabs Stevie. They put them gingerly into the back seat and buckle up and then Sam stands back and looks at them for a second. “Thanks guys,” he says. “This was really cool.”
“Come back anytime,” Kurt says, “and don’t forget, don’t wear that sweater with anything but earth tones.”
Sam laughs quietly under his breath. “Riight.” He climbs into the driver’s side and glances back to double check on his siblings, then leans across the passenger’s seat and gives them a brief wave. “See you guys later,” he says, and they stand back as he starts his car (on the second try, this time) and pulls out of the driveway and onto the street.
Blaine wraps his arm around Kurt’s waist as they watch him go, his fingers slipping under Kurt’s jacket, and Kurt idly plays with the loose curls at the base of Blaine’s neck.
After a minute, Blaine pulls away enough to look at him. “I’m starving,” he announces, and Kurt just rolls his eyes and leads him towards the house.
fin.