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Chapter Text

Back and Forth

INDIE ROCK BAND

Here's What We Don't Know About PDA's Second Album and Tour

By Julie Allenman for Rollingstones

_______________________

Still haunted by the sexy specter of Spirit Mansion ? PDA is ready to betwitch you again with new music. Now, even if their new lead single Natural has been met with lukewarm reviews , this band knows how to keep fans on their toes. Announcing the release of their second album first, the reveal of its name a week later has made sure they stay on the radar. Who are the 'Seven Sinners’ the title refers to? Are the four band members surrounding the golden bad boy Blaine Anderson (son of actress Amilla Devon and philanthropist Henry Anderson) thinking of expanding their band? If so, will their already unique new wave meets hard rock style change? Needless to say, the mystery won't hurt their brand. 

The band has survived a sex tape scandal , a half-canceled tour and a mysteriously burned down trailer soon after the band’s surprising loss of one Sebastian Smythe to his solo project. 

As if the break-up of the beloved power couple, fans called “Smytherson” wasn’t scorching enough! Rumors and scandals, oh my. 

Fan accounts claim that Seven Sinners is connected to the upcoming tour kicking off in June. Not without some receipts. In an interview with POMP, Anderson implied that 'the upcoming tour will be unexpected, even for our standards. We plan to make up for the last tour's cancellation and to give people a spectacle they won't forget.' 

Say no more. There is no way we could forget you, PDA. 

Kurt Hummel is standing in a dingy studio, before him his very last chance. He is used to worse conditions to dance in. At least here, he has an even floor.

What he knows are New York’s harsh streets. A vibrant mix of busy, ignorant locals and wide-eyed tourists easily distracted by the next new thing. Yet, all these streets offer him is the same tired routine with a crew that makes more money stealing from unsuspecting onlookers, than they do dancing. Kurt Hummel has stolen anything himself. He is not above taking his share of it at the end of the night, though. And yet he barely earns more than what he owes to others.

New York strip clubs are harsher, which is the next alternative if he doesn’t ace this audition. It doesn’t just feel like a last straw. Because right now, Kurt Hummel is scraping the very bottom of the barrel. So this is it. It has to be. 

Dream or not, this has to be the first step on his ladder.

An opportunity Kurt might have already blown as he misses his cue when the music starts playing. It’s a slowed-down version of rock songs he mixed with just enough of a beat to give it an edge. His usual style is more contemporary, more refined. Here he dances a bit more Coyote Ugly.Even if an unconventional one, PDA is a rock band after all. 

By the end of the first chorus, the music has finally wormed its way in. Enthralls and unfurls his locked muscles. The biggest point of contention between the crew and Kurt has always been his style  - also known as his drive to stick out of their monotony. His dancing draws attention. He floats like a butterfly, and stings like a kick of his pointed shoe to the groin. 

Today he plays a role though. He has to fit the rock band's general style if he wants to become their tour dancer. Kurt’s movements become lascivious as the word sounds rolling of a tongue. Soft with a hiss. It transforms him as it opens him up, one beat to the next. 

Kurt Hummel may have lost everything he was as a young teenager, especially his singing, but music still makes him more .

When the song hits the second verse, he chances a look at the jury sitting across from him. And he immediately gets snapped back into himself. It’s so jarring, yet so familiar. Being ignored is a constant as a street performer. Here, he thought an audition might be different. How foolish.

From the time waiting outside, Kurt knows that he has the second to last spot of the auditions. It’s not an excuse, but an explanation of their rude dismissal. One guy is looking at his phone, a woman’s half asleep on the table, a third is watching a butterfly flying in the room. Only the drummer watches him with a judgmental sneer on her red stained lips. 

He tells himself that this isn’t so different from all his past job interviews. Once again, he has to turn dismissal into admiration. Kurt Hummel will get this job, because he is made to dance; to be seen.

There has to be more than street dance, thievery, poverty and fear for him. Frankly, this new wave rock band is not exactly his dream. Not even a genre he prefers to listen to let alone dance to. He only knows their biggest hit and did his research, amused by their many scandals, but not impressed. 

What they are is a shoe into what he ultimately is going to be: a star. Shining in his own right. And PDA at least has a smoking hot lead singer. A singer who is glaringly absent from this audition.

Still moving, despite their disinterest, Kurt clears his throat, then says, "Hey, I’m still dancing.” 

It sounds more like a ‘fuck you, if you don’t watch me.’

At least it seems to have an effect on half the members, who at least finally look at him. His anger refuels him. He feels how smooth his movements get, liquid one moment, electric the next. Demanding all their eyes on him, he bends down low before rising up a slow spectacle. 

The song speeds up, pulls at his limb from his shoulders to the tip of his pinky, his expression matching the mournful, angry theme, his whole body moves fluidly – then stops right as the music comes to an abrupt halt.

Kurt trips. He is just lucky he knows how to play it off as gracefully as he can. Though really, he knows that it’s pointless. He has missed his cue, he does not fit into this genre, they don’t care. 

Why did he think that this was a good fit? Oh, right. Desperation. 

Bitterness will be the hook he will hang himself on tonight. That might be better than the alternative if he shows up at home with neither money nor a job that promises lots of it. He can’t go home empty handed. He literally can't or he'll risk not only his health but that of his roommates. The price of living in New York accrues interest after all. Money he had asked of the wrong people.

Had they watched him, had they let him finish, he could have proven his worth against all odds. Reality has yet to show him mercy. Surprisingly, it doesn’t stop stinging. While joining this tour wasn’t even his life goal, it still turned out to be a pipe dream in the face of failure.

Whatever they say, he tells himself, will only be out of ignorance. His contemporary style never fit with these cretins anyway, even had they paid attention. As Kurt relaxes his body into a standing position, he faces them. His eyes dare them to at least give him an explanation. They owe him that. But they don’t even look at, but past him.

“So rude, Blainerz. Ladyhips over here was not finished with his gay pride truck routine.” Santana Lopez, the bitchy faced drummer, says into the deafening silence.

At first Kurt doesn’t realize that someone - no - not someone - the lead singer of the band must be right behind him. His performance wasn’t stopped by anyone other than Blaine Anderson . Why couldn’t he at least be spared the shame of being rejected by number four of QP Magazine’s “Sexiest Men on the Planet” after only 30 seconds of dancing?

Blaine Anderson takes that moment to place a hand on Kurt's shoulder. It’s so gentle a let-down. A bright smile is settled on the celebrity’s face, and before he can melt into them, Kurt looks away from those honey-trap eyes.

He looks far from his stage persona. Instead of intimidating and dark with the signature smokey eyeliner, leather jacket and swept up hair, Blaine Anderson now looks almost approachable in a washed-out olive shirt and denim, curls surrounding his clean, handsome face. He is a teenage dream Kurt had longed for back in backwards Ohio. Bad boy or teenage dream; in either of those versions, Blaine Anderson deserves a spot higher than number four on any list. 

Still, there is a glint in his eyes, a way he holds himself that promises mischief. Just a few seconds, a few glimpses at him confirm it. There is something about Blaine Anderson that few possess. Effortless charm wrapped in intrigue.

In his shadow, Kurt feels like his toes and fingers go numb with nerves.

“Hi there. So sorry to interrupt your performance.” Anderson’s million watt smile dims as he looks at his band. “I just needed to intervene since someone in this room does not think it necessary to pay attention to people we want to hire. What the fucking fuck, Sam?”

The blond bassist with the multiple piercings grunts in acknowledgement, not raising his head until his band mate snatches it right out of his hands. “Hey, I was winning!”

“As much as it pains me to say, and believe me, it poisons me, but Blainerz is right. Ladyhips should be far more important than your stupid- is that Snake? Are you seriously missing that ass for Snake? Is it that gaping snake mouth that's so appealing or do the two brain cells you have left only allow for outdated kids' games?"

Sam Evans, a grown man, a member of a rock band, begins whining. “Rude. I was so close to beating Brittany’s highscore.”

The unknown blonde woman at the table looks up then. “You’ll never beat me.”

Kurt has picked up enough Spanish from one of his many rotating roommates to understand all the insults Santana Lopez hurls as Sam pulls at her arm trying to get his phone back. Admittedly, Kurt prefers this mess over the lukewarm beginning of his audition.

“Get a damn grip guys and show some respect. From what regrettably little I saw, he has potential. More importantly, he has yet to be scared off by you.” Anderson looks at Kurt, his mouth twisting into a wicked smirk. “You think you have the special it to keep up with these losers?”

“Uhm- I, I, I think I have what it takes for this job.” One deep breath in. “I’m hard working and I do very well at learning new choreography. Your music really inspires me, so-” Kurt stops when he notices that this is not that type of job interview.

Be confident, back straight, make eye contact. It’s easy to relax with Blaine Anderson being a mellow version of the man he displays to the public. “Have you had any experience with dancing on tours?” Anderson asks. “Or any other gigs?”

He knows that the truth will not measure up. What can a poor orphan swaying in the back of a street crew offer? What he can offer are lies that slip his tongue all too naturally.

“I toured with New Directions two years ago. It’s all on the resume.” The New Directions aren’t super big, but they are a pop band with one big advantage. One of the members has been in glee club with him. And she owes him. Not enough to hire him, but enough to lie on a probing call.

Anderson looks surprisingly adorable with his head tilted questioningly. “New Directions? Quite a style change then.”

“I’m ready for a new direction myself.” And it’s true. This is his chance to be part of something bigger than himself. So Kurt’s voice comes out high, yet bold. “You’re done looking for candidates, because you won’t find anyone better than me. All you have to do is give me a fair chance. And we all know, this was not a fair audition so far. If it were, you would have given me the job a few seconds in.”

Brittany claps so loud it startles him. “He’s the unicorn we’ve been looking for.”

“How about you get another chance to prove you’ve got what it takes? And this time everyone will give you the attention you deserve.” Anderson squeezes his shoulder.

Under the touch, Kurt’s numb limbs awaken immediately. Much more demure, all courage set on that one bold statement, Kurt wheezes, “That would be great.” 

He waits for Anderson to sit down. To play the same track from before. Instead the front man pushes a button on his phone and another song starts to play. It takes a second before he recognizes it.

It’s the band’s biggest hit, their only yet massive commercial success, Spirit Mansion . Upbeat yet edgy and constantly stuck in Kurt’s head because every radio station plays it to death even two years after its release.

He will not dance alone it seems as Anderson stays right next to him and gestures for him to start. It’s so much worse with this unnervingly handsome star next to him. Now, Kurt is right back where he started; limbs numb, forehead sweaty, heart so thunderous he barely hears the song in the background. Then Anderson starts singing along his recorded self. The verse is a valley, soft yet uneven, then turns harsh and needy as it peaks in the chorus. 

The lyrics circle around the protagonist stuck in a house, haunted by a past lover, neither of them quenching their desires. Anderson looks right at him, eyes half closed, as he begs Kurt, no, his ghost, to haunt him more as the night falls.

Kurt only realizes he has started to move in sync with the rhythm in the middle of the first verse. Blaine’s eyes fuel him, drive him out of his body. He can only seem to watch himself move from the outside, feet raised, drifting like a ghost as he circles Anderson with a hand on the singer’s waist. 

With the rise of the chorus, Kurt stands behind him and pretending to scratch down his front, as he drops down low. Through Anderson’s spread legs he has a second to bask in the band watching them both. And it’s a them now. He feels their synergy when Anderson catches his leg as he puts his ankle on the shoulder. Everything flows as if they practiced it. He let’s Anderson pull him closer by the waist, splitting Kurt’s legs into a perfect 180 degrees, as he pretends to play guitar on the dancer. Then Kurt elegantly slips his raised leg down his front and dances away, before he can be grabbed.

Outside of Anderson’s gravitational force, Kurt is snapped back into his body. Back into his nervous body. But when he looks behind, he is recaptured in the burning heat of his bright eyes, his flushed cheeks, his wet, open mouth. Anderson looks so conflicted, so utterly affected. Haunted, through and through. Kurt knows he must look the same. 

It pulls him right back out of himself but into Anderson’s arms. The hands on him are strong and needy now as they pull his back to a hard chest. Kurt can only stretch out hands and legs, all caught. He doesn’t truly want to break free. Anderson’s breath is hot on his ear, so low yet so clear as he sings along ‘There’s no need to deny it, come haunt me to try it.’  

Only then Kurt slips away.

It’s a back and forth between them, closeness and distance, while Kurt’s body moves without his instruction. By the end of the last verse he finds himself panting against Anderson’s lips, mouthes inches from touching. How he ended up here, he doesn’t remember. It’s all burned away. The background music fades out with the last words ‘baby, I'll die to revive us’ repeating over and over. Or maybe it’s his nerves vibrating in a low hum, a ghost of a song.

Kurt pulls away just enough to see a soft tongue on plush lips, to see his Adam’s apple bounce as he swallows. With the flicker of his eyes, he catches Anderson staring just the same. When they breathe, they breathe together. Eyes on lips that won’t yet touch. They’re so close.

They don’t give in. 

The last note rings, long and haunting. It’s over. Kurt only then returns to his body. Arms behind Blaine Anderson’s head, it takes effort to get disentangled. Once they do, Kurt feels a chill set in, humiliation as both fever hot and freezing. The confidence he had exuded just a few minutes ago has vanished with the song, now that he needs it most. That was not dancing. 

That was anything but what he prepared. Kurt Hummel is a great dancer, a great performer but he. is. not. Sexy. Everyone loves reminding him of it. So he waits for their laughter, eyes downcast. 

Instead, he hears whistles and catcalls.

“I was joking when I called you Ladyhips. But it’s been a while since a man has revved up this gay engine, so the only way I won’t question my sexuality is making this nickname permanent on tour. Because, hot damn.” Kurt’s head snaps up in time to watch Santana fan herself with her hand. “I think I speak for us all and say you’re in...or that Blainerz will be in you if you keep up that dancing.”

Blaine Anderson’s hand finds Kurt’s shoulder once more. It’s like he knows how much Kurt craves the reassuring weight of it. From behind him he hears soft, good-humored laugh that softens the innuendo. “Snix, don’t sexually harrass people five minutes in please.” 

His voice is so soft, a stark contrast to the grit of his singing voice. More importantly, it sounds terribly unaffected after all this. Meanwhile, Kurt barely can catch his own breath, catch his own want. This is what it feels like in the blaze of a star. As approachable as he seems, Blaine Anderson is lightyears above him. 

Anderson steps around him then and joins his band mates. It feels like being left on stage with all the lights turned off with no applause to soften it.

“She is right though. I think we have great stage chemistry and I like your dramatic dancing. It adds to the song. The fans will eat that up for sure. Also, I’m tired of women grinding on me, when the whole world celebrates us for queer anthems.”

Kurt's heart pounds ahead of him. For now, they haven’t said the words. And yet…And yet their words make hope spring up in his chest.

Right before it crashes.

 “He did have this ballet thing going on though,” It’s the first time Tina Cohen-Chang, the guitarist, who seems to finally be fully awake, gives any indication she is part of this audition.  ”Does that really fit in with what we want for this tour?”

Kurt wishes she had stayed half asleep.

“It’s not the same old boring hip grinding that everyone and their grandmother expects,” Blaine immediately replies. 

“It was damn near stripper-esque. Moulin Rouge meets Black Swan.” Sam says. “Then again, it worked well, especially with Spirit Mansion . And the chemistry was hard to miss. Maybe if he worked with Brittany to merge styles and make it more coherent, more PDA ?”

"More PDA and we'll get sued," Santana quips. 

“I’m sorry but for me, it looks too frilly.” Tina leans back, having said her final piece. Fuck Tina and her final piece. Kurt has dealt with enough homophobes to have heard any insult, no matter how veiled.  

Santana cuts in, “They were practically wet humping - at least if you count my reaction.”

“Yes, but what was all that ballet stuff? Sorry, I know we’re trying to think out of the box with what we do, but we’re not trying to put on a Broadway show.”

“Listen, Tina-Cohen-Jealous-Hag-”

“No!” They all go silent to stare at Brittany. She stands and  with the conviction of someone who has not spent most of this audition spacing out, she says ”He is magical and his dancing is, too. And he is one of us. I feel it in my eyebrow. The left one.” 

It might have reassured or shocked Kurt to see the band members understand the random mumblings of the dancer. However, he doesn’t have time to process because in the time they have fought about him, he has found, more than anything, the courage to end this audition. 

“I danced before some of you knew how to take more than a few tentative baby steps. I have what it takes. And anything you want me to change I can easily catch up on while you finish a level of Snake or before you wake up from your nap, or are done jerking off while questioning your status as a die-hard lesbian. I can keep up with it all, believe me.”

In comical synchronization, they all gape at him. All but Anderson, who never seems to shake his untouchable cool charm. If this were any other group of employers, Kurt would have just stayed quiet. Here, after being treated like he was nonexistent until the lead singer showed up he feels less like he needs to defend himself before they all turn on him. He hasn’t felt this excited to dance in years, if only to prove them wrong. As odd as they are, he sees their passion. And he wants them to propel him toward fame. 

“I don’t think anyone here questions your talent. But can you be part of a team? This team?” Anderson asks. His voice is velvet wrapped around a dagger. It takes the angry wind out of Kurt’s sails, to be asked point blank and expected to be truthful.

Surprisingly, Kurt's words are clear in confidence. “I will be.”

Anderson's smile is dazzling. He gestures over to Brittany. “Then blow the choreography part out of the water, new kid.” 

Kurt nods with determination. The same determination that made him repeat the choreography all nerves gone. He only messes up once. He only puts his own spin to a move once - he can’t help it. Before he can question his decision, Anderson’s easy smile sets him back on track. He knows he has it in the bag even before the choreography ends. 

Brittany is practically beaming at the end of it, before she jumps into his arms and he can luckily hold her up. ”You did it. I told you he was magical!” 

She kisses Kurt on his cheek, then nuzzles into his neck like a cat. She seems to have zero intentions of climbing down, so he awkwardly bends down until she is left sitting at his feet. Seems like she has no intention of getting up soon.  

Raising his head, who knows what the other’s faces look like, because Blaine Anderson beams at him. He's not a star. Anderson must be the sun to burn so bright it scorches. 

“Well, all in favor of him being our newest member on the dance roster, go and raise your hands.” Anderson says.

Everyone minus Tina does, some more enthusiastically than others. And just like that, Kurt is in. 

He has a job with one of the most promising if not yet famous bands of the past year. He will tour with them through the States. This street performer, this nobody with aspirations, has officially landed a permanent spot on stage. Dancing every night with Blaine Anderson of all people.

Kurt Hummel will be a star in his own right! 

“Welcome to PDA .” Anderson says with that damn luxurious voice he uses for singing. It makes Kurt want to jump right into his arms and nuzzle his neck. “Wait, I don’t even know your name yet.”
“Kurt. Kurt Elizabeth Hummel.”

He sticks out his hand, not surprised when the one gripping his is solid and warm. 

“Welcome to PDA , Kurt E. Hummel. You’ll fit right in.”

Blaine Anderson @Blainerz.  1 hour

World, get to know @star.k.hummel & @share_themike! Pic. /HFKS24 

AllNaturalPDA @PDAstan 58 minutes

WHO THE FUCK ARE @star.k.hummel & @share_themike ?!?!?!? 

#pda #sixofsevensinners

Chapter Text

Turns out leaving your street dance crew causes conflict. Nothing Kurt Hummel, survivor of the most dramatic high school glee club in existence, can’t handle though. He has gotten shoved before. Has been called more colorful names. In the end, as his crew pummels him into a group hug he realizes just then, how much he will miss some of the dancers and will be missed by them. 

But Kurt’s moving on to bigger things. Brighter things. Paying things.

It’s a few weeks before their first tour date, which means rehearsals start soon. For now, the band and dancers will set up things in a permanent studio in West Village before they start living from tour buses. A tight smile settles on Kurt’s lips when he thinks about the reaction his teenage self would have had about living out of a single suitcase for weeks. It’s silly. He has managed to do that for months his junior year. 

Looking in his fully mirrored wall, in his little corner in their New York apartment, Kurt feels a galaxy distant from his younger self. It’s more sweet than bitter. He’s here, irrefutably part of life again. And it’s starting to look golden again, this life on the road to recognition.

“Ready for the big night?” Kurt jumps a little when a head pokes through the curtain to his room. He doesn’t mind Mercedes just barging in. It's not like this living arrangement was made for privacy. Plus, he never stops feeling like he can ever make up for everything she has done for him. 

Kurt turns from the giant mirrors and bar he had fixed to the wall and gives her a full and honest smile. “As good as. Just thinking about what to wear. What’s the dress code for meeting all your rock band employers again?”

“It’s a bar, Kurt. EVen if you weren’t looking like your fabulous self, you’d have darkness and alcohol on your side.”
It’s true. He is overthinking this. Not because fashion is his highest value anymore, but because he can’t help but want to make a good first impression. It still feels like the rug could be pulled out from under him any minute. Not least of all because he lied in his audition about his credentials.  

He hands his elbows against the wooden bar, relieved for the support. “I guess you’re right. Still-”

“Fashion is a language.” Mercedes finishes. She proves it too, always accentuating her curves and dark skin tone with bold patterns, popping colors and mixed fabrics. Mercedes Jones is loud in all possible ways. “Let’s find the right words then.”

A feeling of nostalgia, only she brings out in him lately, bubbles up. Taking her bejeweled hands, Kurt drags her to the chest of drawers in front of his bed. It's holding all the clothes he now owns. With additional eyes, he’s glad to find that a review of his wardrobe proves that you don’t just completely lose your sense for good material, nice fits and good matches. Though he mostly has clothes with enough room to freely dance in, he finds ways to at least make his wardrobe a little chic. New York’s flea markets and vintage shops be praised.

When he pulls out with a white shirt with leather sleeves, Mercedes shakes her head so wildly, it makes her long curls fly around her soft, dimpled face. Just like him, she is not shy about her opinions. She is a warmth in his life, a gentle and vulnerable amber that knows to crack up into fire when provoked. It’s the reason he trusted her to take him in in high school; him, his one suitcase and his hurt.

Swiftly, Kurt shoves back one of his few dress shirts she pulls out. “Nope, it won’t be the nice  kind of bar where you can kick back, sip your 20 Dollar Martini and hope to spot Angelina Jolie. According to Google, its main customer base are dedicated hard rock fans.” With wiggling eyebrows, he adds, “Which I officially now am for my new job.”

Mercedes snorts, a loud and wonderful sound. “Of course. It’s the first thing coming to mind when I think about Kurt Hummel - hard rock aficionado. Then yeah, maybe you can lay it on a little thicker with the outfit. What in here says Smoke on the water is my ringtone?”
Surprisingly, that gives him an idea. 

He knows they have to be somewhere. The first place he checks is beneath his bed but he finds them a little later right next to the front door. As if he ever has reason to wear them anymore. The knee-high white leather boots with maroon laces admittedly look incredible on him. Flat shoes are just more practical, but he found the boots in a box in the house's basement one day and couldn’t let them go to waste. He knows he can build tonight’s outfit up from there. 

Meanwhile, Mercedes has made a mess of his wardrobe. He has no hope she’ll clean it back up. Sitting down on the floor to squeeze into one too tight boot, Kurt admits, “I guess I don’t easily blend in with the band, yet. You should have seen them. It’s like piercings, tattoos or brightly colored hair are mandatory. Who knew I’d be the boring one, ever?”

“You, boring? Don’t think I’ve forgotten that whole pink hair and tongue piercing delinquency phase with Quinn. I-” Mercedes cuts herself off quickly. Her eyes are quilty, her mouth a worried o. It’s not bringing up what Kurt looked like or how he acted back then. It’s the why of it that chokes him. He should be over it. He should be.

He pretends to be.

“All I remember is how damn good I looked back then. You’d be surprised by how many closeted neanderthals suddenly took interest in me.” Ironic, how his attempt to lighten the mood brings up another stabbing memory. He swallows it, just like everything else. His tone is as light as he can make it, when he says, “I also remember the infected tongue and the nightmare of pink neck and shoulders from where the dye washed out. Would not recommend. A tattoo though…”

 Kurt’s not the greatest actor, but he knows how to deflect. Mercedes gives him a moment. One questioning stare to check if he’s fine. All she gets is his gaze dropping to his legs and a tight smile. Then she joins in his charade. It’s one of many reasons he loves her so dearly.

Coming over to help him pull on the other tight boot, she says, “I don’t think you need to get all tatted up. They hired you as you are. Plus, it will be a better contrast to have an untouched, angelic Kurt dancing around all these bad boys.”

“And bad girls”

“And all those bad bitches.” She agrees, laughing.

“What do I hear about bitches?” Quinn’s voice rings through the apartment before she too steps through the curtain uninvited.

If Kurt looks far from his teenage skank phase, Quinn Fabray now looks like she would never even consider crossing paths with people who weren’t prim, proper and old money. There is nothing left of the girl who dyed his hair, pierced his earlobe, taught him how to put on eyeliner, how to smoke. She’s all-American blonde perfection now.

“Hey, Q-Boo. It’s Kurt’s first time meeting the full PDA crew.” Mercedes stands to give their third roommate a quick peck on the cheek. “We’re still looking for something he can impress all those punks with.”

Still on the floor, now both feet finally secured in tight boots, Kurt says, “Don’t forget to mention it’s at a hard rock bar somewhere in New Jersey. ”

“New Jersey? Don’t we live in New York for a reason?” Quinn lifts one fair eyebrow in question, then spins around. “Let’s see what we’ll find. I’m sure I have some of my old stuff in a box somewhere.”

Not only is Kurt thrilled to see if he can stretch his fashion equipment in Quinn’s huge wardrobe, but he sees a chance when it’s presented to him. He needed to get her alone today. There’s never a good time to ask for this. There is a worse environment though and he prefers to have only one friend concerned. So if this is his one chance talk to Quinn one-on-one without too much suspicion, he’ll take it.  

“Cedes, wait here so I can get a full surprise outfit review!” Kurt’s gone before she has time to process what he’s said. 

The studio is fairly large, thanks to his roommate’s income, with the kitchen/dining area stretching in the front, along where they hung up curtains for room walls. Quinn’s is at the left corner, with Mercedes’ sandwiched in between hers and Kurt’s nook. Her curtain is a buttery yellow with polaroids pinned to it. Most are of her on prom nights and graduation. At the bottom, hidden in the mix is a picture of the two of them. She’s turned from the camera so she’s all short messy pink hair. Young Kurt peaks up behind her staring at whoever took the photo. Their hair the same soft color, they almost blur into one.

He follows her in through the part. While Quinn starts going through a suitcase she has under her bed, they start chatting about their days. Living together isn't always harmonious. They all contrast in a way, yet they make it work. What joins them together to this day, he hopes and equally fears, is him. These girls have saved him. Kurt doesn’t want to think about this too much, because gratitude will prevent him from asking Quinn what he knows he has to. 

There is no alternative. He waits for her to finish her story about a dinner with current elite catch, before he slightly lowers his voice. “I can’t wait for the rehearsal to start. Even if I will miss you and all the New York gossip.”

Holding up her McKinley High cheerleader top over her shirt, Quinn turns to him. He grins, mostly for her sake. She puts it on the bed, beside some skirts she clearly wants to try to revamp for herself later.

“Hush, as if I won’t fill you in on every boring mixer and gala I’ll attend. After all, we still gotta find you a rich prince after the disaster of a date with Josh.” They both cringe, then crack up, thinking of the date he spent listening to the latest crypto currency. At least he got a free meal of it. 

But Kurt has to get this conversation back on course. “Two more weeks and I finally get to start a job with an actual income.”

He watches her neck stiffen with alert. Then she comes over to press one of her old electric blue leather jackets over his chest and smoothes down the arms to see if it fits.  “And I couldn’t be happier for you.”

To everyone, Quinn Fabray might be all smiles, but never without a frosty chill. He knows a real smile from a polite one, knows that even if she can’t help but want to be made to feel superior, he is at least a few steps above most. This is as genuine a praise as he will get. Though she aims for Southern Belle, no south has never been as icy as Quinn. It’s not all facade. Even in her kindest or most vulnerable moments, Kurt has never witnessed her being less distant. And yet, he knows the softness of her, like a kiss a melting snowflake leaves on a cheek. It’s how Quinn draws people in, because snow can be oh so soft. And oh so terribly cutting. It’s with this melting mellowness that she says, “You deserve this, Kurt.”

“Thank you.” Kurt’s glad to not have to look into her green eyes as he pulls on her tiny jacket. He continues in a whisper , “So- I truly, truly wish I didn’t have to ask this. But since the rehearsal only starts in a few weeks, that means I won’t get paid until over a month from now.” He hates how needy he sounds already.

Quinn is silent. What would she have to say? She knows where this is going.

“But this time, you’ll know that I’ll be good for it. It’s a steady income, health insurance included.  They even take care of food and housing.” The jacket is too tight when he zips it up. It compresses him, robs his air, makes his whisper even needier. “It’s a lot to ask. It’s not right, I know that.”

Quinn draws closer and roughly pulls down the zipper. Kurt feels every ridge of it against his skin. Her probing eyes watch him struggle to peel his arms out of the stiff leather. 

When she finally speaks, equally low, he hears her skip the ‘how much’ that’s supposed to follow. Instead she asks, “Will I get to finally hear what the money’s for?”

The jacket might as well still squeeze him for how much trouble breathing becomes. Kurt could have told her long ago. Should have, for the audacity to ask her to save his ass no information supplied for the third time. He could have confessed to Mercedes years ago, confessed into the safety of a dark night when she shared her bed with him, that he wasn’t just frugal. 

He was and is dead scared to spend any money. 

Because as it stands, Kurt owes a shady ‘company’ that his crew mate recommended to him 45.000 Dollars. When they met in a far too fancy looking bar, a too handsome man in a nice if boring suit opened the conversation with, “Kurt, you must know you’re a very lucky man.” 

When Hunter explained to him how hospital and funeral bills often racked up way higher, how institutional loans had unfair interests, he made it sound plausible. They were legitimate business men and they would be very generous in their interest rate and increments they allowed him for payback. Kurt should feel so, so lucky. Kurt would make the best deal of his life. It was only right before he left, contract signed, that Hunter let his kind act drop. 

“Pay on time, and we’ll be the best service you can get, Kurt. But you screw us over?” His smile was cutting as he pinned Kurt’s wrist on the table and squeezed. “You pay even a measly quarter dollar less? You leave this city without a notice? You forget to pay in time? We’ll ensure you won’t be able to make any mistake ever again.” Kurt had tried to stay stone-faced while fingers dug in until his bones howled. Hunter left shortly after; Kurt’s deal with the devil a red burning mark around his wrist.

How could Kurt ever burden his friends with that? It’s robbing him of sleep nightly. And truthfully, he’s scared that they’ll know he isn’t the only one in danger if anything goes wrong. These sharks know his address, probably have ways to hurt anyone he cares about. Of course, Quinn and Mercedes have the right to know. He should give them at least the opportunity to make  a decision. He should give them an out, a reason to leave him. Kurt should, he should. 

But he can’t. He’s too weak to brave solitude. 

At the very least, this time, after failing to pay Quinn back fully before, what he can offer is a half truth. “When he - when he died-” Kurt still can’t bear to say who. “I inherited everything. Turns out, you earn everything. Bills and funerals and loans, too. Carol tried to help, but she also earns so little. And I couldn’t take her money anyway, not after all she did for me, what she went through with me.” He pauses, it’s so hard to go on, but he does. “Even selling the part of the repair shop to his partner Warren didn’t cover much. I didn’t know it then, but he had taken a large loan for the new house, for my car, for a lot of unnecessary fashion pieces I wanted. It just - it racks up. And how could I pay for it when I ruined any chance of a normal job?”

Kurt feels his eyes water. It’s the admission, talking about this at all when he usually locks it away. It’s also the humiliation of having to ask this of someone who he owes, who he lies to. All he can do is at least finish it.

“Quinn, I need 5.000 Dollars. I’m sorry to ask this of you. I’m sorry.” It’s hard to keep his voice low with tears running down his cheeks. He doesn’t blame her for not comforting him. “I know I still have over a thousand to pay back to you. I know you’ll have to ask your grandparents and that it’s the worst thing to ask of you. I’m sorry. Of course, you can say no. I would never hold it against you. And I promise to understand and never ask again. There’s other people I can ask.”

He sees Quinn’s dainty feet shuffling over as she slumps down onto the bed. She looks as composed as ever, even with her teeth biting sharply into pink lips. They both fall into heavy silence. Kurt knows she will give in, otherwise he wouldn’t have asked. But he feels so guilty about this. About the pretense of giving her an out, when they know it’s only out of politeness at best, manipulation at worst. Though if she were to say no, at least he’s certain that he won’t feel an ounce of resentment. Only surprise. 

“Thanks for telling me.” Her smile is freezing. But there. “You’ll have it by tomorrow. Is that okay?”

Even if he knew she’d help him, the relief is palpable. The guillotine lifts up again, dangling above but at least it’s no longer heavy on his neck. It’s always at these times, when Kurt knows he can pay Hunter back once again, that he feels how scared and tense he has been leading up to it. 

“Thank you, Q.” That’s all Kurt says. 

He doesn’t want to make false promises or long declarations of gratitude, because neither is he capable of it, nor does she want to hear it. The only thing Kurt wishes to apologize for again, is dragging her back into her grandparent’s manipulative claws. Owing them means having to attend every family birthday, having to call weekly, having to introduce potential fiancés suitable to the Fabrays. The only act of rebellion they endured was Quinn’s skank phase after a big pregnancy scare the family didn’t handle well. It was a short phase, but one through which Kurt and her connected. He never asked if she regrets that phase now.

When Quinn goes back to carding through her clothes, they both know that this topic is over. Kurt watches her shrug the conversation off. Let’s her pretend it's a little money, easily made. 

“Don’t you wish we could go back to our freshman year?” Stepping into her cheerleader skirt, Quinn can still pull it up without too much of a struggle. “When the world was only as big as the school halls and we worried about zits and where to sit during lunch break? Where our biggest wish was to have a cute senior notice us?”

Usually, he gets a sour taste for Quinn’s nostalgia. She can’t let go of the past. Kurt wants nothing but to forget most of it. It’s the wrong moment to burst her bubble. 

Forced smile, Kurt says, “What I wish for is to still fit into my teenage clothes like you. At least then we could find an outfit I can wear tonight.”

She preens at the compliment, twirling in the skirt, all former Queen Bee. “Let’s go shopping then.”

“Quinn-”

“Come on, I’m asking my grandpa for money now anyway. The least he can do is add something so we can treat ourselves to a new outfit.” Seeing his crossed arms, she draws on them until she’s holding his hands until they unclench. “I promise it won’t be fun, because most of it will be spent looking for clothes for me that I want lots of compliments for.”

The last thing Kurt wants is to owe her more. He also knows she will not relent. Using his numb fingers to squeeze hers, he agrees, “Fine, I’ll pay you in excellent fashion feedback. We’ll go to  a second hand store for me though. Trust me, I know where to shop to avoid ratty Abercrombie from 2009.”

“Alright, but if we can’t find something we love, you’ll have to try my stores.”

His smile is a smidge more genuine. “Deal.”

Before they go back to invite Mercedes out to shop, he gives Quinn a hug. It’s short, too short for what he owes. She accepts it, settling her surprisingly warm arms around him.

Blaine doesn’t have to counterbalance with his full weight, because as with everything, Cooper is all act. The sandbag still bounces against Blaine, the height difference giving Cooper an advantage when he boxes. While his brother is constantly babbling, throwing a punch every now and then more to punctuate some words, Blaine just waits for the shoe to drop. The last few years they spent together has bridged a lot of the distance that the age difference and Cooper leaving has created. So Blaine knows when he is warming up to give unsolicited advice.

When he gets more and more restless, they finally switch places. They’ve trained together a million times. Still, Cooper always seems surprised by the power of the first punches and sways too much with the bag. As if he still can’t tell the depth of Blaine’s frustrations. Whatever Blaine has to hold back, here he can relieve it. His fists smack forcefully against the soft, yet unyielding leather.

“Whoa - slow down there, tiger, or you’ll burn out just as quick.” With Cooper, it’s always critique wrapped in concern.

Blaine doesn’t slow down. Frankly, with his brother behind the bag, he punches to see if his fists could go through it. It’s wrong, how swift burning Blaine’s anger can be. A smoldering coal that only shows its power as it’s faned. He’ll be ashamed of it later. Anger ricochets. Though Blaine’s out of energy quickly, his arms vibrating with the counterforce and his lungs a pained balloon, he won’t show it. 

Over his ringing ears, he hears Cooper say, “Next Thursday, we’ll have to send over the final album. It’s early, but of course they have to produce the physicals at some point. I pushed it as much as I could.”

He double punches the bag. This time Cooper seems to expect it. Blaine’s happy to hear none of his strain in his voice but all of his cultivated coldness. “Sure. I was fine with the track list a month ago. Maybe you didn’t hear me when I repeatedly said it was finished.”
“Yeah and I like the songs on it-”

“But you still bring it up, because you think I’m making a mistake leaving Mercurial High and Nothing To Keep Fingers Warm off. You’re wrong.”

Cooper looks at him behind the sandbag, then quickly returns to his position, because Blaine has no intentions of already ending the training. In fact, his tired bones are recharged. Cooper ducks in time to avoid the punch.

“Squirt, you know I’m your number one supporter.”  His brother just ignores Blaine’s loud scoff and goes on, “Anything left on the album is good.”

Blaine rolls his eyes. “You just don’t think it’s great.” Another left hook. “Got it.”

“I didn’t say that. Did I say that? No!” He steps away from the sandbag for good then. A mistake. It leaves Blaine with nowhere to direct his anger but him. Cooper is all actor, nothing but an on-stage persona, when he continues, “ I stood by you through the whole thing with that shit weasel. Held up a shield for you, like a - like a gladiator from 300 .” Cooper mimes holding up a shield. It’s not remotely funny. “And I get why you don’t want songs with his vocals on it. They’re squeaky anyway. What I still don’t understand is why you refuse to re-record them? You’d sound great, no, even better, doing this solo. Show him that you don’t need him.”

Biting his tongue, Blaine goes over to the bench in the left corner of the room and starts adjusting the weights on it. Anything to not have to look at Cooper and wonder how much of it is true concern, and how much it’s his manager talking. The anger clenching his chest can blow up. It has happened more than once and usually it’s his family caught in the blast. Blaine’s always hurt by the shrapnels. 

Putting distance between them also allows him more time to find an answer. Even if Blaine knows to leave off these songs will hurt the album, hurt the band, he can’t stomach it. To sing the songs Sebastian wrote and have to perform them. Because they’ll be hits. Spirit Mansion was. These two new songs were a collaboration, sure. But only on a technicality. Blaine had his hands in the writing process, but in the end, his ideas were shut down. Maybe for the better. It’s hard to say now. 

The results are the same. As much of an asshole as Sebastian is, as conniving as he was in using Blaine to ride his coattails to fame before dropping him at his weakest moment - his writing is superior. Of course it is. Sebastian has a way with words, has charmed them all with equal amounts of wit, sarcasm and flirtation. Makes you feel like it’s an honor to be liked by him, not the joke, but in on it. It’s always snakes and their slittled tongues.

If he were to publish them, these songs would have to name Sebastian Smythe as sole lyricist. Pretending they were anything else would be worse than the truth. Blaine would have to admit it. Admit that the best songs were not his at all. So he won’t do it. Let everyone else think he’s too heartbroken to sing them. It’s true, too.

 It’s just not the most important reason. 

Laying down below the silver bar, the sturdiness of the bench holding his back, Blaine finally replies, “I don’t need to prove anything to that shitbag. And PDA doesn’t need those songs. You gotta trust the album to be complete the way it is now.”

“Blaine-” he makes his name sound like a lecture.

“I won’t change my mind.” Blaine pushes up the weights, letting them pull his focus. He feels shaky under them. Thinking about Sebastian, these songs, has tempered him.

He hears heavy steps, then Cooper’s face appears above him. “Blaine, listen to me! You’re making a mistake - these songs could become the Mamma Mia of ABBA, the Hungry Like The Wolf of Duran Duran.”

He stares him right in the eyes when he spits, “Are you going to force this, Mr. Manager? Because I was hoping to talk to my brother about this.”

Cooper’s upside down smile falls and he steps back until Blaine can no longer see him. He’s not naive enough to think this will be the last time they will fight about this. There’s always a next album. But for just one more week, Blaine can be stubborn. Though he loathes his quick fire anger, he can now use it to not give in when eventually, his need to please others, make everyone but him happy, will very likely make him bend again.

“Fine! Be like that. We’ll do it your way.” As a default, Cooper Anderson is his opposite. If the world revolved around him, it still wouldn’t be enough. It’s just that he seems determined to act the big brother now and relents. Or maybe he actually is his brother now. Blaine wouldn’t know the difference.

“One more thing though.”

Blaine rolls his eyes and drops the weight into the holds with a heavy clang. It’s always one more thing.

His voice is all buttery manager again, when Cooper remarks, “I know you want to tour as many states as possible. Which is an amazing idea. Got to milk it all. Let the name Blaine Anderson become synonymous with the Gagas and Biebers.”

He doesn’t correct him. What Blaine wants with the tour is to give fans with lesser means an opportunity to come, to minimize traveling distance for them. Plus, the rush of playing as many live shows as possible, is the reason he started a band in the first place. So they tried to find venues in as many states as possible. With one exception.

 “Not Ohio.” Blaine doesn’t trust himself to pick up weights again, when he says this.

“How’d you know-"

“What else would it be about?” He sits up and wipes sweat from his brows. Shaky fingers dig into his closed eyes until he sees stars burst brightly. “I said, no Ohio . Every goddamn other state but Ohio.”

“We’re playing goddamn Idaho-”

“Yes and Hawaii and Alaska if we could. Let’s play a NASA station for all I care. But. Not. Ohio.”

Blaine has to catch himself with one hand not to tip over when Cooper squeezes onto what little space is left on the bench. If the conversation before has made Blaine ignite, this one plunges him into an airless, icy atmosphere. 

Cooper’s smile is gone, his blue eyes intense for once. It’s as serious as his brother will get. “You’ll have to talk to them eventually.” 

“Really? Who says I do?”

“They miss you. There’s not a single phone call they don’t tell me how they're thinking about you.” How earnest it sounds makes it all worse.

Blaine’s laugh comes sharp as he regains the upper hand. “Oh? How many times do they call you?”

Cooper doesn’t seem to notice the thin ice of Blaine’s trap as he waltzes over it. “We actually talk quite often.”

“No, I mean, how many of those times is it you calling them ? When’s the last time they contacted you first? The last time they wanted to know about your life.”

Cooper’s whole body deflates. He would have never made it as a tv actor. Up close, he’s even worse of a liar. “What’s important is that we do talk. About you, mostly. About us all becoming a family again.”

It’s like bellows blow on him, igniting him in an instant. The lid snaps so easily. “Why the family friendly bullshit now? Why care now?” Through the white hot fury, Blaine releases it with a voice rough and loud. 

It’s the one thing they bury again and again, the one thing his anger can never leave to rest in peace. “Where were fuck were you for the last sixteen years?”

Blaine doesn’t have the capacity to regret it. Not when his blood is boiling, his throat is thick and he knows it’s only the truth. It’s still the worst thing he could have said. Because they always pretend that Cooper’s vanishing act when Blaine was eight, is forgiven and forgotten, until Blaine digs it up and wields it against his brother. 

Usually Cooper's quick to defend himself. Finds a million and one reason why he left. It’s almost impressive how inventive he can be and how blind to see himself. This is not the reaction Blaine gets now, as Cooper chokes, “You know it’s the biggest regret of my life.”

It’s not enough to make him take his words back, but enough to return Blaine to his senses. As much as the old pain of enduring most of his childhood without Cooper, left to carry their parents’ expectations on his shoulders alone, can overwhelm him, he wishes they were closer. As an adult, he can look back and see that Cooper was just young. He understands it, even if he can’t help but be scarred by it. It’s because Blaine cares too much about his brother that he often can’t accept this new found bond at all. Still he doesn’t want to sever it completely.

Without Cooper’s usual excuses to keep his anger flaring, it dies just as quick. Blaine crumbles.

“Fuck.” He sits up and presses his back to Cooper’s. It’s a way to connect without allowing his brother to see how vulnerable he is. How shaken by himself. “Okay, let’s do Ohio.”

“Are you sure, Squirt?” No. Never. 

All hallowed out, he says, “I’ll agree to one dinner with them.”

Blaine’s heart clenches at how rapid Cooper’s joy is. “That’s all they ask. Seriously! All they want and expect of you is a chance. Like you’ve given me.”

Yes, but you didn’t raise me. You never made me your puppet. You never made me realize how conditional love is and how impossible to meet these expectations. You never broke me.

“One dinner.”

Blaine needs a drink, needs a smoke, needs to see Tina.