Everlasting: iv.
Grace Anderson is a very busy woman.
Her days are booked through weeks in advance, social engagements arranged into every spare second of her time. She is a natural born hostess and was bred for the high society she now unequivocally dominates. There are people scrambling for her favor and who spend weeks crippled with anticipation over whether or not they’ll be invited to the next Anderson garden party. She possesses no small amount of power among the town, especially for a woman, and it is not a position she takes lightly. It takes work to get to the top and Grace Anderson definitely clawed her way up there.
And she took a chance on her choice of husband. No one expects much of a man whose father owns a simple building company, but Grace’s mother had always had a keen eye for favorable possibilities. She’d never climbed much higher than middle class herself, but she always wanted what was best for her daughter. Lima, Ohio might not have been New York or even Columbus, but it was a town and the majority of it ate out of the palm of her hand.
She had never questioned the way she chose to raise Blaine. There were times, of course, when she wished that maybe she’d had a daughter instead, but there was nothing stopping her from making sure Blaine had the best future possible. Was it so wrong for a mother to want what was best for her son? Couldn’t he understand that, in the end, she was simply trying to secure his best future?
She knows that she has a hard time listening and that her ways are set in stone, but Blaine had never seemed truly unhappy before.
That summer’s day was the first time in a long time that Grace Anderson cleared her social calendar. She pulled a chair up to the window and sat there all day, willing her son to walk back through the gates and into her arms. Her son, her child, her darling baby boy, and no matter how hard she had been fighting for his future, now there is a chance that Blaine might not have a future at all.
She takes her tea there by the window, and her supper, and every time a servant comes into the parlor, she looks at them expectantly, just to see them shake their head or ask if they can get her anything.
My son. Please bring Blaine home to me.
Her husband comes and goes, his mouth always drawn in a deep frown. He stands by her at times, squeezes her shoulder, kisses her hair, before he puts on his hat and sets out again.
The sun sets and Blaine doesn’t come home, and Mrs. Anderson doesn’t move from her chair. She stares and stares out the window, eyes shifting from their trimmed lawns to the iron fence to the woods that seem to swallow children up like candy.
A thought hits her suddenly, and she draws in a sharp breath, standing quickly and moving towards the window. She presses her hand against the cool glass and stares at the gate. She remembers a few nights before, when she had watched Blaine from the very same spot as he ran about like a small child, trying to catch lightning bugs in a jar.
And then there was the man. The man in the strange, yellow suit.
“...it’s him,” she says suddenly, her eyes widening. “It has to be him.” There are no other answers she can think of. “Michael!”
Michael Anderson is a very busy man.
He grew up in a middle class family, with a strict father, a loving mother, and an older brother who was set to inherit everything. Michael knew that the business his father had built from the ground up would never be his, but he did what he could for his family, even if it meant being a shop boy at times.
But then Michael’s brother died of influenza and everything changed.
He was a smart man, even if he’d only had a basic education, and he thought of ways to grow his father’s company in ways the elder Anderson had never considered. His ingenuity and knack for business made the company flourish, so it was no surprise that when he asked for Miss Grace Miller’s hand, he was happily obliged.
They never could have predicted the man he would become or the success he would garner. His father’s company spread for miles and out of it popped Lima, Ohio; a small settlement that Michael Anderson made into something more.
He is hardly bothered with their social standing and indeed cares more about his latest land acquirements, and his routine gatherings with his colleagues around a box of cigars and a perfectly aged bottle of scotch. No, everything social was left to his wife, and Michael Anderson trusted her with their reputation wholly. He was a smart man, but he’d married an even smarter woman.
Michael Anderson might say that he regrets how much his business has taken priority over his family. He had worked side by side with his own father for years and yet Michael barely recognizes his son when he looks up long enough from the paper to properly see him. He’s grown up seemingly in a blink, and suddenly there’s talk of marriage and schooling, and Michael Anderson has never taught his son a single thing about the family business.
When Blaine had been born, Michael had breathed a sigh of relief-a son meant that he had an heir to his legacy, someone to take over for him someday and keep all of his hard work alive. But he had a business to run and a new family to support, and those were the important things in life. A man has to provide for his family and make them as comfortable as possible, after all, and that’s what Michael always told himself he was striving towards.
This summer’s day is the first time Michael Anderson doesn’t coop himself up in his office, a building located on the far side of town and away from his wife and son. He spends hours combing the woods and finding not even the indent of a footstep, returning when the sun gets too hot and his legs go stiff from walking. His wife stays at the window like a specter, not once moving and never asking any questions. Michael never has any news to report.
Michael had never seen Blaine’s first steps. If asked, he would not be able to recall Blaine’s first words or even the first time he had said “Papa.” In fact, Michael Anderson does not know his own son’s favorite color, which type of cufflinks he prefers, who he is courting, which young men he is friends with, or anything about his son other than the fact that he has one.
So, he searches harder and regrets every mistake he’s made in the last seventeen years.
And when his wife says, “Blaine’s been kidnapped, I know he has, I know the man that did it,” Michael listens to her and goes to the sheriff’s station for the fifth time that day.
Lima isn’t the sort of town that sees a lot of action, crime-related or otherwise. As a result, Lima’s local sheriff, Robert Pierce, is a kind, docile sort of man. He has a lovely wife, and a lovely daughter, and he’s never had to fire his gun (except a few times when the rabbits got too close to his wife’s vegetable garden).
So, when the Andersons’ only son goes missing, the whole town is in an uproar. People don’t go missing in Lima, at least not without proper notice. But that’s exactly what’s happened and Sheriff Pierce finds himself at a loss for what to do. For the first time in his career, he feels unsure of his position and completely incompetent.
Every time Mr. Anderson enters the station, Sheriff Pierce feels as if he’s letting down his town.
“Mr. Anderson, we have done everything we can, I don’t know what you expect me to do-”
“Your job, Bob! My son is out there somewhere, he’s missing!” Michael Anderson slams his hand down on the Sheriff’s desk and he jolts, sighing heavily and rubbing at his brow.
“We’ve wired descriptions to every town in Ohio, Michael. If Blaine goes anywhere, we’ll find him. We will find your son.” Robert has to believe it, after all, even if there are no leads or straws to grasp.
Michael is silent, staring down at the desk, eyebrows furrowed. Robert can’t imagine what the man and his wife must be going through; if anything ever happened to his Brittany, he wouldn’t know what to do with himself.
“My wife thinks Blaine was taken by someone,” Michael confesses, finally looking up. As rare as running away is, a kidnapping is absolutely unheard of. Robert nearly upsets his coffee in surprise, gaping at Mr. Anderson.
“Now, Mr. Anderson-”
“She’s insistent, Bob. I’ve never seen Grace this way, she... There was a strange man at our house the other night, speaking to Blaine. She didn’t think anything of it then, never even got a name, just that he was wearing a strange suit-”
“Mr. Anderson-”
“You need to find him, Bob, please, he has my son-”
“Michael.” The Sheriff stands, setting his hands on the other man’s shoulders. “Calm down. You can’t just go accusing innocent people of such things.” Robert stands straighter, settling into the position his title dictates. “Now, Mrs. Anderson knows this based on what exactly?”
Michael hesitates and then sighs.
“Her instincts, but-”
“Mr. Anderson, as much as I respect you and your wife, her instincts aren’t enough to arrest someone on. I understand that you’re worried, but you just have to be patient. We’ll find him.”
“Please, just... Just bring him in! Put my wife’s worry to rest, if nothing else. He was wearing a yellow suit and-”
A door down the hall opens, drawing both of their attentions, as the Deputy Sheriff, Mr. Schuester, and a man in a yellow suit step out from one of the inner rooms. Michael stands tall, eyes widening, at a loss for words as he stares at man his wife described approaching him.
“Mr. Anderson,” Sheriff Pierce says from behind him, walking around the desk to stand beside him. “I believe this is the man you were talking about?” Michael just nods.
“Sebastian Smythe, sir.” The stranger holds out his hand and Michael takes it on principle, his breeding winning out over his suspicions. “I heard your son is missing.”
“Kidnapped,” Michael corrects. “My son was kidnapped.”
“Mr. Anderson, we don’t know that,” the Sheriff sighs. He turns to Sebastian, frowning. “From what I can tell, it’s a runaway-”
“My son did not run away, Bob.” Michael sends him an icy glare and the Sheriff just shakes his head. “And as fascinating as your hypotheses about where my son is are, it’s not doing any good finding him. What I want to know is if this man has anything to do with it.” Michael turns back to Sebastian, eyes cold.
He’s a stranger; Michael Anderson knows every single resident of Lima and has never seen this man before in his life. Except it seems silly to call him a man; he’s but a boy, really. He couldn’t be much older than Blaine himself.
“I met your son, Mr. Anderson,” Sebastian replies smoothly, straightening the fall of his tie. “But I’ve come to Lima looking for someone myself. I was just asking the Deputy here, but the name doesn’t ring any bells-your son did mention you, though, that you could help me?”
Mr. Anderson sighs heavily; his son is missing and a boy is trying to wheedle information out of him.
“Hummel, is the last name.” Sebastian works to twist his hat in his hands and grins. “Long lost relatives, you see.”
“No.” Michael feels quite tired then, leaning back against the Sheriff’s desk. “No, that name isn’t familiar.”
Sebastian frowns for just a moment before shaking his head.
“Of course not.” He dips his head. “I best be going then, but before I do.” He turns to Mr. Anderson, his grin confident. “I’m in the business of finding things, Mr. Anderson. Those woods stretch for miles, but if your son is in there, I’ll find him.” He sets his hat on his head, tips it respectfully, and departs with an, “Evening, gentlemen.”
The three of them watch him go silently, and when the door is closed, Michael turns back to Robert Pierce and claps a hand against his shoulder.
“Find out what happened to him, Bob. Please. You have to find him. He’s our only child.”
As the night grows later, candles are blown out, lamps are dimmed to preserve oil, and curtains are drawn over windows. Blaine recognizes the telltale signs of a household preparing for bed, except he can’t excuse himself from the parlor and retreat to his own room. This isn’t his house and there is no room or bed for him, leaving him standing awkwardly in the center of the room as the Hummels move like clockwork around the cabin.
He wonders where they’ll tell him to sleep. They haven’t treated him badly thus far, but that doesn’t mean he won’t be curled up on the ground tonight without the normal comforts of a quilt and pillow. He scuffs his foot against the wood and frowns as it occurs to him that he doesn’t have any sort of nightclothes. Do they expect him to sleep in his trousers and waistcoat?
“Oh, Mr. Anderson!” Carole turns to look at him as if she’d completely forgotten he was there in the wake of her evening chores. “We need to set up some place for you to sleep, don’t we?” She tsks to herself, walking over to a trunk and throwing it open to reveal a large store of quilts.
“I can do it, Carole.”
Kurt walks towards the chest and takes the quilts out of Carole’s arms. He’s dressed down in nightclothes now, and Blaine feels a rush of embarrassment at seeing him. Which is only natural, seeing as Blaine has never seen anyone but his own reflection in such garments.
“Oh, it’s all right, Kurt, I don’t mind. That’s what a mother does.”
Blaine tries to remember the last time his mother even came into his bedroom to say goodnight and fails.
“You’ve had a long day, and so has Pa. Really. I can do this.” Kurt’s voice goes softer and a look passes between him and Carole before she’s nodding slowly.
“All right, then.” Carole turns her attention to Blaine. “If you need something in the middle of the night, Burt and me are right through that door there.” She points to one of the thick doors along the back walls. “I’ll see you boys in the morning.” She kisses Kurt on the cheek and he ducks his head, as if the motherly affection is embarrassing when there’s company present, although Blaine only finds the gesture sweet.
“Goodnight,” she says as she makes her way to join her husband in their bedroom.
“Goodnight, Mrs. Hummel,” Blaine says in return and sees Kurt freeze the same way he had over supper, when Blaine had addressed Carole properly for the first time.
“Why do you do that?” He asks in the silence that follows the thud of Carole closing the door. Kurt turns to look at him, eyebrows raised in surprise.
“Do what?” Kurt weaves towards one of the corners of the room, where a padded bench is pushed up against the wall. Blaine wonders if that’s to be his bed and already dreads how uncomfortable it will most likely be.
“When I call your mother Mrs. Hummel, you-that!” Because Kurt’s back had gone rigid at the formality again. He doesn’t move for a long moment and when he does, it’s only to climb up on the bench and begin to hang one of the quilts from the ceiling. Blaine notices hooks for the first time and wonders how many other people they’ve captured and kept in that corner.
Kurt continues not to speak and Blaine turns the question over and over in his head; he doesn’t understand. He didn’t say anything rude, as far as he’s aware, although perhaps his tone was a bit too demanding. Nothing was all that offensive, unless perhaps it’s a tic that Kurt was unaware of before.
Resigned, Blaine picks up the rest of the quilts and moves quietly to join Kurt in the corner. If Kurt realizes he’s there, he doesn’t acknowledge it, and even if Kurt is the reason Blaine is there, Blaine still feels guilty about upsetting him.
“I apologize,” he mumbles quietly, and Kurt looks down at him from his perch on the table. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
Kurt still doesn’t speak, taking another quilt from Blaine’s arms and working to hang it up as well. It’s making a nice little square, tucked in the corner of the main room, that will at least give Blaine the illusion of privacy. It’s considerate of them, but then, they really have been nothing but hospitable since he arrived.
“Carole isn’t my mother,” Kurt says, stepping down from the table. He pushes the quilts aside and gestures Blaine in, so Blaine goes. He sits on the bench-softer than he’d anticipated-and looks at Kurt, who stands at the gap in the quilts and his fingers twist at the hand sewn edges. “My mother died when I was very young. Carole was a widow when my father married her-Finn and I aren’t even brothers.” He looks from the faded patterns of the quilt to meet Blaine’s eyes. “We don’t have a lot of visitors. I haven’t heard the name Mrs. Hummel in a long, long while.”
It explains a lot, really. It explains why Kurt calls Carole by her name, and Finn calls Burt by his. It explains how none of them really look alike the way a family should. But it only increases the guilt Blaine has already been feeling.
“How long has it been?” Blaine asks quietly, watching as Kurt’s eyes become distant and wistful.
“She died when I was eight.”
Not too long, then, if Kurt is around Blaine’s age. He wonders briefly why Kurt had said very young if he’d been eight at the time, but Blaine supposes any age is too young to lose one’s mother.
“I’m sorry.” Blaine stares at Kurt earnestly. “I never meant-”
“I know.” Kurt smiles, small and tight. “It’s okay. You were raised that way.”
He was. But the idea of dredging up the memory of Kurt’s dead mother just to maintain his manners and right to call himself a gentleman seems untoward.
“That may be, but it would speak poorly of my character if I let my manners interfere with common human courtesy.” Blaine clasps his hands together. “Just because I was raised a certain way doesn’t mean that way of life defines me.” It comes out softly, words that have been fluttering inside Blaine for years but that he’s never had the chance to voice. He wonders what makes him choose then and now-what makes him choose Kurt. Maybe it’s the fact that, when he looks at Kurt, there’s a quiet sort of understanding there.
Kurt doesn’t say anything further, instead picking up the quilts again and shooing Blaine from the bench to the chair so he can set up the bed properly.
“You should have enough privacy in here,” Kurt says conversationally. He makes the bed neatly, despite the fact that Blaine will be sleeping in it soon afterwards, and Blaine finds himself watching Kurt’s hands as they work. “Unless you’re in the habit of talking to yourself. I sleep right above you.”
Blaine glances at the boards above his head and wonders what sort of rooms they could even manage up there. Kurt finishes and then turns, hands clasped in front of him and the atmosphere around them suddenly awkward and tense.
“Do you-”
Blaine is startled by how roughly Kurt’s voice comes out, but Kurt coughs, his face flushing in embarrassment.
“Do you need help getting... Getting undressed?” Kurt finally manages, and this time Blaine blushes. He supposes he can sleep in his undershirt and breeches if he must, but it’s not as if he has a corset that needs to be unlaced. Blaine wonders if Kurt is offering because he thinks Blaine is used to being assisted in preparing for bed (which he is), but he shakes his head.
“I think I can manage, but thank you.”
Kurt just nods stiffly and glances away shyly, leaving Blaine to wonder how Kurt could go from so cold and detached in the forest to acting like this.
“Well then.” Kurt turns to leave and gives a nod of his head. “Goodnight, Mr. Anderson.”
“Blaine.” He says it too quickly and bites his lip, staring at Kurt’s back as he stills. He turns to look at Blaine over his shoulder, blinking curiously. Blaine licks his lips, mouth suddenly feeling oddly dry. “Please call me Blaine.”
When Kurt smiles this time, it’s different. This smile stretches his lips and brightens his face; the corners of his eyes crinkle and Blaine thinks he might see a dimple, but the light is too dim to know for sure. There’s a strange tightness in his chest at the same time as he appears to lose the ability to breathe. He rubs at his chest, as if his fingers can soothe the pain away, and Kurt’s smile flickers and disappears.
“Are you all right?”
Blaine smiles tightly and nods.
“I’m fine.”
Kurt doesn’t look convinced, but he simply shakes his head and turns to slip through the gap in the quilts. Blaine takes a deep breath as soon as Kurt’s out of sight, running a hand through his completely disheveled hair and wondering what in the world just happened to him.
“Oh!”
Blaine looks up to see Kurt’s head come into view again.
“Goodnight, Blaine.”
There’s that smile again and Blaine’s hand tightens into the fabric of his dress shirt right above his heart.
“Goodnight,” Blaine whispers, and then Kurt is gone again. He slumps onto his makeshift bed, softer now that it’s been piled with thick quilts, and stares at his hands.
Is something wrong with him? Is he becoming ill? Perhaps there was something in the food and they’ve poisoned him.
No... No. Blaine might not know what these people want or what they plan to do with him, but he has been shown too much kindness this day to think they have any malicious intentions.
The ceiling above him creaks and Blaine can see a flicker of movement through the cracks. For a moment, he feels uncomfortable at the thought of undressing, but then pushes it aside. It’s not as if Kurt can see him, so there really is no reason for him to be quite so suspicious.
“I just need to sleep,” he mutters to himself, unbuttoning his waistcoat. There’s a few knocks on the ceiling above him and he looks up, but there’s nothing to see.
“I wasn’t lying about the talking. I can hear you,” Kurt’s disembodied voice says through the planks of wood, and Blaine lets out a startled laugh. He claps a hand over his mouth, unused to being so unbridled. Blaine never gets to just laugh, not anymore. Laughter is done politely and quietly. One does not just let themselves laugh without restraint.
Blaine had forgotten how good laughing could feel.
He’s still smiling as he continues undressing, and it isn’t until he’s turned off his lamp and is tucked beneath the quilts that he hears Kurt speak again-softly, like he’s telling a secret.
“You have a lovely laugh.”
i. ii. iii. iv. v.