“Santa isn’t real,” she says, matter-of-fact, arranging her peas on her plate in arching lines like a rainbow of only green. She looks up at Blaine and he can tell by the wobble on her bottom lip that’s she not as casually unruffled by this information as she would like him to believe.
Blaine falters, and she watches him falter, stuttering out an, “Uh, um,” before looking to Kurt. Kurt cuts his chicken, gives Blaine that look where his face is impassive save for that one arching eyebrow. The look that sometimes says, Really, Blaine? or Those pants are a travesty or just an all-encompassing straight to the point, What the fuck?
This evening it plainly says, This one is all you, buddy.