Untitled Blart Ficlet

By the time the square red caps hit the ground, Burt can no longer claim that he has something in his eye. He's crying, and he knows it. He hugs his wife, who passed crying half an hour ago. Through all the commotion, he manages to catch the eye of the now-senior boy sitting on Carole's other side. Blaine's eyes are also shining, but with more pride than even Burt can muster. The two men exchange a smile and a nod, and they turn their attention back to the stage, where the graduated glee club members converge into one massive group hug.

When he lets his sons go to the party in the field behind Puckerman's house, Burt doesn't do so with wool over his eyes. He knows they'll be drinking, but he also knows that someone will be the designated driver. He makes sure to tell all three of them—Blaine has been his son for quite some time now—to be safe and make smart decisions. They head off in Kurt's Navigator, "Don't Stop Believin'" blaring from the speakers.

They come home around three in the morning, and of course Burt is up waiting for them. The Irish kid whose name he can never remember drops them off in the Pierce's station wagon, telling Burt that they can pick up Kurt's Navigator later. He drives home with a sloppy Brittany and a sloppier Santana doing Burt-doesn't-want-to-know-what in the back seat.

Finn immediately heads up to bed, crashing on the mattress before he undresses himself. After repeating door open, no inappropriateness to the other two until it's drilled into their heads, he lets them sleep in the same bed. He goes back to the couch and collapse with a sigh, already worried about how Kurt and Blaine are going to manage in New York without supervision.

A few minutes later, Burt feels someone sit next to him. He looks up from where his head was buried in his hands to see a surprisingly sober-looking Blaine gazing dopily at him.

"I didn't drink that much," he says, twisting a ring in his right hand around absently. "I didn't want to get too gone and ruin Kurt's day."

"Smart idea," Burt says gruffly. He can tell the boy wants to talk, but waits for him to initiate the conversation.

Which, of course, he does. "I don't want him to think I'm not proud of him, 'cause, God, I am. But...I don't know how I'm going to make it through this next year without him. He's, like, everything to me, you know? And he's going to be in New York and I'm going to be here and it's just not fair. I...love him, Mr. Hummel. I just love him a lot."

Burt doesn't say anything. He knows all this. He knows what they mean to each other. He's heard them, late at night, on the phone together, Kurt holding back tears at the thought of going to the city without that boy. Burt knows he should offer some advice or something to this clearly distraught kid, but before he can think of anything, Blaine says something else.

"I'm gonna marry your son some day, Mr. Hummel."

Burt knows this too. He's known for longer than he cares to admit—probably longer than they'd been dating. He pulls Blaine into an awkward but and whispers, "I know, bud. I know." He can feel Blaine falling asleep in his arms, so he leads the boy up the stairs and into Kurt's room. His son is already dead to the world, snuggled under his covers with one arm reached out to where Blaine normally sleeps. Burt hands Blaine his pajamas and claps him on the shoulder. "You take care of him, you hear me?"

Blaine nods, and Burt knows he understands his full meaning. "Always."

Burt heads to bed. He's not so worried anymore. Everything's going to be just fine.

Short drabble is short. I was feeling the Blart love the other day on the bus, so I wrote this. Nothing much. Really, this A/N is more plugging my new WIP, The Real Third Quarter Quell, which is a The Hunger Games Trilogy AU centered around Klaine. You should not read it unless you've read at least the first two books of The Hunger Games Trilogy.

I am now the proud owner of three pairs of Starkid sunnies.

TUMBLR IS klainebowsandquirrelmort.