Cut the Cord
Chapter 30

Burt drops him home from the airport which is incrediblynice of him considering it’s well out of his way. His mom opens the door andshe looks more anxious than she should do, her hands already flapping at hersides. Blaine worries that she’s been on edge like this the entire time he’sbeen away.

She thanks Burt and says something vague about meeting upfor drinks which Blaine knows will never happen. Burt’s smirk suggests that herecognises the polite offer for what it ultimately is: empty. He shares onelast conspiratorial look with Blaine and then climbs into his truck and drivesaway.

“Let’s get you inside then,” Blaine watches his mom take hisbag, regardless of his protests, and fuss over him as they go inside. He getswhy she’s been a bit more over-protective lately and he can’t blame her forthat, but she seems almost jittery as she makes him sit at the table and have aglass of water.

“Had a busy few days?” He asks nonchalantly, stirring hisplastic straw in the clear liquid—the straw that she hasn’t given him since hiseighth birthday party.

“You’d better drink that up; airplane travel is alwaysdehydrating. I think it’s because of the recycled air system they use. Do youwant something to eat, too?”

Blaine’s starting to feel a twinge of foreboding in hisstomach; she definitely just avoided his question. It’s really quitefrustrating because the knot of anxietythat he’s been carrying around for months, the one that makes him feelsimultaneously like he’s wound up too tight and unravelling too fast, finallyloosened itself the other night and he was enjoying the lightness in his chest.

“Mom, what’s going on?” He puts his glass down and turns tolook at her, but her eyes are fixed on something beyond him. “What…?” Heswivels to follow her gaze and sees his father stood in the doorway—except itdoesn’t really look like his father.

First of all, he isn’t wearing a business suit, or hisformal ‘home-wear’, which is unheard of apart from that one time when they tooka family trip to Disneyland and he bought a pair of shorts. Instead, he’s wearingsweatpants and a baggy t-shirt, the yellow colour of which does very little forhis currently wan complexion. What catches Blaine’s attention before all ofthat, though, is the swelling on the left side of his face and what look likestiches over a gash near his temple. Then there’s the fact that his entire leftforearm is covered by a cast.

He’s clearly not on his deathbed, but the contrast from hisusual detached toughness makes Blaine feel strangely sick. He stands up onshaky legs, his pulse quickening for no discernible reason. He reminds himselfthat it’s not possible to have a panic attack without something triggering itand this is in no way panic-inducing. It’s like the foreboding from a momentago has turned into a living creature in his stomach, gnawing away at hisability to reason.

“W-What happened?”

“Your father had a bit of an accident. He was hit by a cartwo days ago—”

“—Clipped; it barely hit me. I was leaving the office and Igot clipped by a car.”

Blaine nods, wishing his stomach would stop churning.

“He’s very lucky it wasn’t worse.” His mom adds, fussilymaking her husband a drink now.

“Thank goodness—I can’t golf for three months as it is.”

He still sounds like himself, but his usual, irritated voicesits incongruously with his injuries and it frightens Blaine. His father ishuman, of course he is, but he’s always seemed invincible somehow, unbreakable.Blaine’s sweating and the lighting in the kitchen is too bright all of a sudden;he has to get out of there.

Neither of his parents stop him as he dashes out of thekitchen and up the stairs, water untouched on the table. He feels better assoon as he closes his bedroom door, as if he can shut everything out and keepit contained downstairs. He sits on the bed and closes his eyes, counting toten and making it to six before his thoughts are drawn back to his father.

It’s utterly ridiculous; it’s a broken arm and a swollenface, for God’s sake. His father will be fully recovered in a matter of weeksand everything will go back to normal, yet for some reason that doesn’t stopBlaine from feeling unsettled. His first thought is to call Dr Marissa becausethis feeling is not normal, but whenhis shaky fingers dig his phone out of his pocket, it’s Kurt’s name that theygravitate towards. It barely rings twice before Kurt picks up.

“Hey, you! Did you have a good flight? I’m guessing my dadonly just dropped you off because he hasn’t called me yet.”

The creature in his stomach calms slightly at the sound ofKurt’s voice. He almost doesn’t want to explain what’s happened because there’ssomething incredibly comforting about Kurt not knowing. Blaine can sit here andsoak up Kurt’s happiness and not think about his own unease. Except he can’tbecause that was the point of ringing Kurt in the first place.

“My dad, he, um, he had an accident.”

He shouldn’t have made it sound that dramatic and now Kurt’sinhaling heavily and Blaine can picture him clutching the phone tighter. “Whathappened?”

“He’s fine,” There, that wasn’t so hard. “Well, he’s notbecause he doesn’t look normal—sorry,I’m not explaining this very well.”

“That’s okay, take your time.”

“He got hit by a car and he’s fine, he is—I just—it’s weirdseeing him with a broken arm, you know? And his face is all busted up and Iknow it’ll heal, but—Kurt, he’s wearing sweatpants…”

“Oh my God!” Kurt’s exclamation is caught somewhere betweenconcerned and amused. “Okay, I can see how that would freak anyone out.”

“Yeah,” Blaine agrees, feeling less nauseous already. “I’mnot—it’s not the fact that he’s injured. It’s just—he’s my father and he’smeant to be—I mean, he always acts so…I don’t know…”

“Invincible?” Kurt supplies and Blaine does that thing wherehe nods before realising he’s on the phone.

“Exactly. It’s funny because I haven’t felt any kind of connection with him since I was likesix, but then he gets roughed up a bit and I’m…scared almost?”

“Blaine, that’s completely understandable. You might not bethat close, but he’s still your dad, you know? And you only get one of those.”

Blaine exhales, fingers unclenching. Kurt gets it, just likeBlaine had subconsciously known he would.

“Thank you.”

“Not sure what for, but you’re welcome.”

“For understanding and stuff. I should probably go now soyour dad can get hold of you. I just really needed to tell someone and my mumlooks like she’s about to have a breakdown right now; she gave me a straw withmy drink, like I was a kid again.”

“Oh, no, not the sippy straws!”

Blaine laughs, the noise dislodging the lump in his throatand allowing the anxiety to drain out of him with each breath.

“I’ll talk to you soon, Blaine. Love you!”

“Love you, too.”

Kurt waits for Blaine’s reply and then hangs up and Blainesmiles at his lack of goodbye; some things never change.

Dinner is minestrone soup and bread, evidently so his fathercan eat one-handed without help; it’s nice to not be the elephant in the diningroom for once.

Afterwards, Blaine does something he hasn’t done for months:he goes to sit in the front room. Dr Marissa had told him to try and surroundhimself with others a bit more, even if he’s just a passive observer of life’sgeneral hustle and bustle. Blaine had briefly considered going to the park eachday after school to do just that, but he had never really had the energy toattempt it. There’s very view people he wants to be around. Tonight, however,he decides anything is better than sitting alone in his room and follows thesounds of the television into the sitting room.

He expects it to be his mom catching up on one of her favouritecrime dramas, the predictable but absorbing variety, yet when he tentativelypushes open the door, it’s his father sat in the chair, newspaper balanced onhis lap. He regrets his decision instantly; his claustrophobic room ispreferable by far to being alone with his father. The problem is that hisfather has seen him come in, even if neither of them has acknowledged theother, so now he can’t leave without showing his weakness. As much as he doesn’twant to start the first battle with his father, he also doesn’t want to loseit.

He awkwardly perches on the sofa, trying not to put too muchweight on the cushions as if he’s sat on someone’s lap. He smooths his handsdown his thighs, wondering if his mother will bustle in shortly and relieve thethrumming energy in the room, preferably before Blaine’s eardrums burst withthe uncomfortable pressure.

“What are you watching?” He ventures, focussing his gaze onthe screen rather than the injured face that makes him squirm.

His father makes a show of pushing his newspaper away,squinting towards the television. “Some documentary on the Amazon. Your motherwas watching it.”

He has a habit of doing that, pushing everything ontoBlaine’s mom so that he can’t be incriminated himself. It’s presumably meant touphold his impenetrable façade, yet it only serves to make him look pathetic inBlaine’s opinion. Does it really matter who chose to watch the naturedocumentary?

“Is it any good?”

“I haven’t been watching it. It’s not really my sort ofthing.”

“Too faggy for you, huh?” Blaine doesn’t know what makes himsay it. One moment he’s nodding along and then his tongue is forming words thathe would never say out loud in a million years. Don’t fire that first shot, Blaine, he admonishes too late.

His father looks at him. “Don’t say that word inside myhouse.”

Blaine feels his insides contract with fear, the wordstattooing themselves painfully into his brain. Don’t say that word inside my house. It sounds just a tad too closeto don’t be that word inside my house which, in turn, sounds a little too likeget out. Blaine shivers with theweight of that implication; although he’s always known that his father doesn’taccept him being gay, he’s never worried about him actually acting on thosefeelings. Of course he’s heard of kids being thrown out or beaten up by theirparents for their sexual orientation, of coursehe has, but it had never felt like a palpable threat to him. Providing hedidn’t start the first battle, his father could remain impassively distant.Blaine may not enjoy being held at arm’s length, but it was a damn sight betterthan being let go of completely.

Except he has just pushed a little too hard, maybe set someinvisible time bomb off—he can practically feel it ticking in the air betweenthem as he whips his gaze back to the television. Logically, Blaine knows hisfather is in no fit state to beat him up, but Blaine hasn’t boxed in a whileand his self-defence is a little rusty. He feels too fragile suddenly, hisskull too breakable underneath a fist. And if this time bomb explodes likeBlaine thinks it might do, a fist is going to be the least of his problems.

Suddenly, his father stands up, newspaper slipping to thefloor and Blaine flinches instinctively, cowering back against the sofa beforehe can even register what he’s doing. He looks up to see his father staring athim, having not moved from in front of the chair, an unreadable expression onhis face.

“Just getting a beer.” He says, voice strangely distant ashe regards Blaine. “Want one?”

It feels like a test, or maybe some sort of code that Blainehasn’t learnt to interpret yet. “Um—yes, please—thanks.” He sounds ridiculouslyweak and he waits for his father to comment on it, but no cutting remarkfollows. His father merely reaches down and picks his fallen paper up, placingit carefully on the seat before leaving the room.

Blaine’s muscles unclench slowly, the cushion behind himanchoring him to his surroundings. He can’t disappear into his head right now;he needs to stay alert. He listens out for the sound of the fridge opening, butthe whole house is silent. What if his mom has gone out? What if they’recompletely alone?

He doesn’t hear his father coming back until he enters theroom, shirt rumpled slightly and two bears clutched in his good hand.

His father hands him a bottle and sits back down again,sipping the beer and staring at the wall above the screen.

“How’s Kurt?” It’s probably meant to sound natural, but itcomes across as incredibly strained.

Blaine considers his options. He could just retreat backinto the trench and wait for the gun fire to be over. Or, he could load up hisown gun, stare his father down until one of them surrenders for good. Thelatter is riskier, but he won’t be exposed to that horrible darkness and dirtanymore.

His fingersclench around the beer. “He’s…good. He’s got a big showcase coming up since hemissed the Autumn one—you know, to come back here and all that.”

“He’s been a good friend to you, hasn’t he?”

Blaine’s not sure what angle his father is firing from. Isthat meant to hammer home their break-up or undermine Kurt’s significance inhis life?

“Yes.” Blaine says shortly, tracing the rim of the bottlewith his index finger.

“I fear I haven’t been a very good friend to you.”

The admission causes Blaine to look up, shocked. He’d nevereven considered that the previous question was his father turning the gun onhimself. Blaine doesn’t even know whatto say to that so he lets the silence play out.

“I always wanted us to be friends.” It sounds childishcoming from his father’s lips, his injured arm suddenly a result of aplayground accident; it doesn’t sit right with his lined face and his tiredeyes.

Blaine nods, wondering if his father was abducted by alienson his way to the kitchen and this man here is simply an implanted prototype.

“I had so many ideas, you know, about how we’d bond as yougrew up. I thought we’d play football together on Sundays, fix up cars andrandom household appliances each summer; I thought we’d annoy your mother withour antics, form a united front until she gave in and let us eat in front ofthe game. I was going to be your role model in a way I hadn’t been able to withCooper. I’d raised one kid, I’d lived a bit more life, had a bit more under mybelt—I thought I was set. I thought I’d get it right with you, I really did.”

Blaine is enthralled, but he wishes he wasn’t. It feels likethat exhilarating moment of climbing into a rollercoaster, the harness trappinghim in place; he remembers his excitement from the queue, but he also reallywants to get off before the ride starts. It’s the most his father’s said to himin such a long time.

“You threw me a curveball, I know that,” His father ischuckling, but Blaine feels sick; he derailedthe family’s domestic bliss, heruined his father’s plans. “I should have batted anyway, but for some reason Ilet it freeze me in place like a complete idiot.”

The gunfire is ricocheting round the room and Blaine’sself-preservation instinct is kicking in, but he also has the bizarre desire toforce his father to duck, too.

“I like football.” Blaine states dumbly.

His father laughs harder. “I know,” he says, balancing thebeer between his legs while he rubs a hand over his face. “You like it morethan Cooper ever did.” He swigs back the last of his beer and Blaine wonders ifit’s his first; there’s a reason why drunk people shouldn’t operate weaponry.

“When Kurt’s next in town, we should go to a game—all threeof us.”

Blaine gapes and decides that his father must have had toomuch to drink; there is no other explanation, aliens aside.

“Kurt doesn’t really like football, he likes scarves.”

His father raises his eyebrows, swigs more beer back. “Ok,then, you can buy Kurt a nice scarf and then we can go watch the game.”

Blaine smiles in spite of himself at the mental imageprovided, the comfortable familiarity of it all. “I’d like that.” He admitsquietly, a tiny knot loosening in the mess that is his insides.

“Great.” His father places his empty bottle down on thecoffee table with some difficulty. “I’m glad he’s been a good friend to youwhen I haven’t.”

There’s that word again: friend. It’s so incrediblyunsettling when applied to either relationship.

“He’s not a friend, dad. He’s the love of my life.” He lookshis father in the eye as he says it, stands his ground as he waits for aresponse.

“You’re young, Blaine, you have the rest of your life tofigure these things out.”

“No, you don’t—”

“I do understand. You forget that I was your age once and Ifell in love with every girl I dated. None of them were your mother.”

Blaine feels blindingly angry, waves of heat rising frominside to heat up his face, at just how much his father doesn’t get it. He’sabout to say as much and then he realises something that makes the fight dropout of him in shock. This isn’t an argument about being gay, this is an argument about being young, being naïve; his dadisn’t suggesting that he and Kurt aren’t meant to be because Kurt is a boy, butbecause they’re both young and have more changing to do, more experiences tohave. Of course, he’s still completely wrong because Kurt is the one, Blaine just knows he is, butthat doesn’t matter, not right now.

“Okay,” He acquiesces, offering a smile. His father returnsit and taps his fingers on the arm of the chair with his good hand.

“I’m sorry I didn’t know what to do with your curveball.”The apology is unexpected and doesn’t begin to cover half of the things Blainethinks it should but he accepts it for the peace offering it is. They bothclear their throats at the same time and it’s sort of funny.

“So,” His dad says, tone too yielding for the firmnessBlaine has always associated with him. “What do you say we change the stationbecause, frankly, I can’t stand this nature rubbish of your mother’s?”

Blaine goes to bed that night more than a little bitshell-shocked. Somehow, he just spent an entire evening in the same room as hisfather, watching Formula 1 no less, without either of them combusting intodust. It doesn’t feel like they’re on the same side of the field quite yet, butthey’re no longer aiming guns at each other; they’re meeting in the middleuntil they can shake hands with clear consciences and Blaine’s surprisingly okwith that. It was worth it just to see the jubilant look on his mom’s face whenshe’d wondered into the sitting room to replace them amiably discussing tires andlap times.

Of course, he also thinks of the injustice that his fatherhad this self-realisation now, aftereverything. But then again, he reminds himself as he texts Kurt goodnight, allis fair in love and war.