fic: all that i ever was. (kurt/blaine)
Title: All That I Ever Was
Pairing: Kurt/Blaine
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 5,846
Warning!: minor character death
Summary: Kurt was eight when he went through this hell. Luckily, his father was there to help him through it. Blaine is nineteen when his mother dies, and his father hasn't been there for him in a long time.
He half expects Kurt to object, to push him away, but surprisingly, Kurt kisses back, grabbing Blaine's waist and tugging him close.
It's one night of bliss, one night of letting go, of tragedies forgotten, and love to remember, and both of them just wish it was enough to outdo everything else.
A/N: I don't know where this came from exactly. Just another angsty one-shot.. maybe I should upload some fluff.. like I have any.
i don't quite know
how to say how i feel
if i lay here, if i just lay here
would you lie with me, and just forget the world?
chasing cars; snow patrol
.
.
Blaine gets the call sometime between three and four in the morning. The shrill sound of the home telephone jerks him awake, and careful not to jostle Kurt, he makes his way to the living room as quickly as he can, wishing to silence the head-aching sound.
He's half awake as he mumbles a confused "Hello?" into the receiver.
"Blaine, sweetheart, it's your aunt, Madeline."
Her voice is hoarse, gravelly, and filled with such a clear aching sadness that it kind of scares Blaine until he's fully awake.
She delivers the news, gentle and sympathetic, and is utterly emotional by the end. Blaine goes into shock, shaking his head and telling himself that it's a dream; that he'll wake up, and somewhere he'd let the phone ring on and he'd never actually answered it. Somewhere, he's still asleep, tucked closely next to Kurt in their soft bed.
But it's all real, and it hurts even when he pushes everything away. And when Madeline lets him go, he returns to the bedroom in a terrifying sort of haze. Kurt waits, awake, for him, and Blaine veers straight for his arms, resting his dizzy head on Kurt's shoulder and starting to sob.
He rubs Blaine's back, holding him with an odd sort of fierceness, telling him that he heard the whole conversation, and someday everything won't feel like the end of the world.
.
.
You see, Kurt can't lie to Blaine.
He can't tell him that everything's going to be okay when it's not. He can't tell Blaine that he'll feel better, because he never will; he just won't feel so completely lost. He can't tell Blaine that everything will turn out alright, because he's been through this, and when you lose someone so important to you, it does damage beyond repair.
Things don't ever turn out right.
You just learn to live with them.
.
.
Kurt was eight when he went through this. When his whole world fell apart and he felt so utterly broken, like he'd taken one step and simply shattered into pieces, crashing all over the pavement.
He was only eight years old when he watched his father start to lose it. When he watched his father turn into a ghost of his former self, staying up late and losing sleep, his eyes going dull and his clothes growing larger. So wrapped up in his own despair that he forgot his son was going through this as well.
He was only eight years old when he stood at his mother's bedside and allowed her to lie to him. When he let her talk him into believing that she would be okay, that they would all get past this and be a normal family again.
He was only eight years old when he stood at the side of that grave, the sunlight burning his porcelain skin, causing the tears staining his cheeks to glitter. When he reached up, gripping tightly to his father's hand. When he realized that really, this wasn't the end of everything - just as long as he had his father.
Blaine is nineteen when his mother dies.
When his world falls down around him. When he knows this is the end. Because he's older and smarter and he can understand death like he can understand how to read. Because it hurts so much now that he and his mother had finally been fixing their relationship and truly began connecting. Because he doesn't have a father who cares about him. He doesn't have anyone older and wiser who can make him feel like he can find his way back.
All he has is Kurt, and he prays that their love will be enough.
.
.
In the morning, Blaine starts through the steps of grief.
.
.
He wakes up after a total of twenty-three minutes of sleep, and an overbearingly empty feeling takes up his chest, and he knows that he can't pretend the last night hadn't happened, but he can pretend he's fine.
Because he's Blaine Anderson, and he's an ace at hiding his feelings. Because he's Blaine Anderson, and his biggest fear is showing his weaknesses. Because he hates giving people more reason to show him care. Because he always ends up losing them in the end.
And it always hurts more than he'd ever admit.
And that's why he always puts others first. That's why he devotes his time to helping everyone else see the light. He uses them as a distraction so others won't see the person he truly is. He tells them things like courage and stand up.Because he's never been able to do that himself, and living those things through other people is the only way he can experience it.
Inside, he's tortured and shattered and he hates to admit it. He hates to be taken care of. He hates to ask for help. He's not used it, and it comes as second nature to push others away.
And it's only normal that even in the most difficult time of his life, he should keep this act up.
.
.
The apartment feels cold, the light much dimmer than usual, but Blaine does everything to act like he's surrounded in sunbeams. Grabbing his glasses from the bedside table, he jumps out of bed and makes his way to the kitchen where Kurt is making his favorite breakfast.
He sits down at the bar counter, a pained and forced smile on his face. Kurt shoves the food in front of him and he forces it down, bite by bite as if it doesn't taste like cardboard to his reluctant tongue and his stomach isn't churning more and more with each swallow.
"Are you okay?"
And so it begins.
But before he can retort, Kurt interjects.
"I'm stupid," he says. "Of course you're not." He steps around to Blaine, rubbing his arm gently and kissing his cheek.
"But what I mean to ask is, are you still going to school today? And play practice afterwards? Or are you staying home? I know this is hard. You can take a break if you need to."
Blaine sighs, trying desperately not to sound irritated. "Kurt, I'm fine," he assures quickly. "I'm going to school and I'll be fine."
Kurt opens his mouth as if to argue, but he shuts it quickly, understanding what's going on more than Blaine himself. He sighs softly and nods.
"Okay."
.
.
It's hard.
It's much harder than Blaine thinks to act like everything is wonderful and great. Everything pushed down and hidden away inside of him keeps eating away, threatening to break the surface, and he though he tries his best, others can see.
No one knows, of course.
No one knows besides Kurt. But it's easy to tell that something's wrong, because Blaine is usually so outgoing, so cheerful, so determined and excited.
And things have changed drastically.
And it's not just his appearance, with the ungelled hair, and the crooked glasses. His ghostly-white skin and the lack of sparkle in his dark, glazed-over eyes.
It's also physical.
He clutches his books to his chest, as if they're the glue that holds him together. He grips the strap of his messenger bag so tightly, holding on to it for dear life and turning his knuckles white. A slouch starts to take from in his posture, which is usually so impeccable because of his second nature of performing. He hangs his head just a little lower, his chin tilted down, his eyelids shielding his gaze from the world.
And all of these subtle things are what make the false smile on his face look so strange, and the wideness of his eyes so wrong.
But he plows on, and he brushes off the worried comments, the offers of sympathy, because accepting those things is just not in his character.
But it still doesn't change that it kills him inside a little more every time he does this.
.
.
Kurt lets him be.
He doesn't bother or badger him; try to get any emotion from him at all. Because he knows these feelings. He knows that all Blaine wants is to stay strong. That maybe if he can convince everyone else that he's perfectly fine, then maybe he really will be.
But Kurt is worried.
Because Blaine is acting the same way he did reminiscent of his father having that heart attack back in junior year. He's pushing everyone away, retorting words with a snappy tone and a defiant manner, declining any offers of help and guidance, determined to stand on his own. And Kurt knows that he doesn't want help, that he doesn't plan on acting.
Blaine is sitting in their bedroom with his legs criss-crossed on the bed, his laptop on his knees as he works through his heavy amount of homework. Kurt knocks against the doorframe as he enters the rather dark room.
"You hungry?" he asks quietly.
Blaine shakes his head. "Not really," he replies.
Kurt bites his lip, his heart wrenching.
It's been just over two weeks, and the two of them have hardly talked, have hardly spent any time with each other. Blaine shuts himself away in their bedroom every night, not even bothering to come out for food.
Sometimes, Kurt swears he can hear the sound of loud, shaking sobs coming from behind the door.
"Blaine," he says softly, waiting until he looks up, his hazel eyes so full of pain behind his glass lenses. "You know I'm right here, right?"
"What do you mean?" Blaine asks, his face almost expressionless.
Kurt desperately wants to rush forward, throw his arms around Blaine, and hold him until everything is right in the world, but he knows that Blaine needs his space, and that the world will never really be right.
"If you need to talk," Kurt settles on saying. "If you need a hug - anything. I'm right here if you need me. Forever and always."
Blaine presses his lips together, nodding curtly. "Well, thanks," he says dryly. "But right now I just need to finish this essay.
"R - right," Kurt says, turning halfway. "I'll - I'll be in the living room if you need me. And if you're hungry, just say something."
Blaine nods again, and Kurt leaves before his heart can break further.
.
.
Later that night, the sound of the telephone breaks through the haze of Blaine's mind, and he shakes his head, realizing with a jolt that he'd been staring at his laptop screen for nearly a half hour. He bends back, reaching for the home phone off of the charger.
The Caller ID reads Bolte, Madeline, and he braces himself.
"Hello?"
"Blaine?" she asks. "I'm just calling to inform you that the funeral will be in about three weeks on the twenty-first. In Huber Ridge. I know it's awhile, but there's so much preparation to be done, and I'm working as fast as I can." She sighs. "And I understand if it's too much for you to fly out here. Your uncle and I can pay for it if you need."
"No, no," Blaine says quickly. "Kurt and I can handle it."
"You sure?"
"Positive."
The line is silent for a moment, neither of them sure what to say. "How're you holding up?"
"I'm okay," Blaine says sternly, not wishing to discuss further. "And I'm sorry, but I have to go. I was about to leave for work."
It's exactly seven-thirty-three pm, and they both know it's a complete lie, but Madeline lets him go anyway, and Blaine shuts the phone off just in time to curl into a ball and fight off the oncoming sobs.
.
.
The days drag on.
Darker.
Colder.
And he's slipping away, buried beneath everything he's trying to hold in.
.
.
Just like his luck, Rachel finds him buried away in the men's makeup room. He'd tried to go to his after-school play practice, honestly, but for the first time in his life, the last thing he wants to do is act.
All he's been doing lately is acting, acting like he's okay, acting like he's not in pieces over everything, acting like he's strong enough to go through this alone, and he doesn't have the strength or energy to do it anymore. He's sick of putting on his brave face and lying to everyone. Of putting up this impenetrable front that only Kurt ever seemed able to break through.
The creak of the door sounds, and he turns his face, streaked with tears, blotched with redness.
She stops, frozen in her tracks as she sees him. And then pain flashes across her expression, just a fraction of his own, and she moves forward slowly, bending down beside him. He doesn't move, but simply stares at her, and she takes his hand, gripping his fingers in hers.
He waits for the onslaught of questions, the panicked accusations.
But she simply opens her mouth and says, "I know."
A pitiful attempt at confusion crosses his face, and she clarifies.
"I was worried sick," she says sincerely. "But I didn't want to bother you, so I called Kurt. Don't be mad at him, I would've pestered it out of anyone I could. He just happened to be the one."
An awkward silence follows, and Rachel sighs, cocking her head. She reaches out, her fingers shaking slightly, and she wipes the tears from Blaine's cheeks with a gentle thumb.
He closes his eyes at her touch, wishing to escape.
"I just wanted you to know that we're here for you - Kurt and I. Whenever you need us, just come ask."
Blaine simply sits there, still and silent.
"I'm going to take you home now," Rachel says, and she helps him stand up.
He follows without hesitation.
.
.
It's Friday night, and the Hummel/Anderson apartment is filled with only the sound of sniffles as Blaine regains control of himself, hiccupping softly every now and then. His eyes are bloodshot and puffy, his sinuses clogged, forcing a throbbing in his head and a dizziness overall.
Kurt has an arm around him as Blaine cuddles into his side, desperate for someone to hold onto.
Kurt thought that it would be easier, better when Blaine finally let all of his bottled-up emotions spill out, but in fact, it's been worse. Seeing how much pain Blaine has been hiding is getting to be too much to bear, but Kurt needs to be there for him, and he's trying not to break.
As he brushes a few curls from Blaine's forehead, noting his pale complexion and exhausted expression, Rachel enters from their kitchen, holding a steaming orange mug between her fingers.
"Here," she says softly, bending down and handing it to Blaine. "I thought hot chocolate might help just the slightest."
Blaine takes it with shaky fingers, croaking out, "Thank you."
Kurt sighs sympathetically. "You sound awful," he remarks, planting a soft, lingering kiss on Blaine's temple.
Blaine takes a long, luxurious drink before replying.
"Crying for hours on end can do that to a person." His voice is bitter, cold.
Rachel sits down next them, and reaches over, giving Blaine's knee a gentle squeeze.
"You'll get through this."
.
.
A weekend of sobbing, of clutching tightly to Kurt, of talking his feelings and everything he's thinking helps to clear his mind.
And he goes into the false acceptance.
The calm before the storm.
.
.
The next week goes by in a blur, memories and moments flashing by without the slightest hint of remembrance. Events seem to blend together in Blaine's mind, and he'll find himself at home without and clue how he'd gotten there, unsure what he'd just been doing.
He's dealt with his feelings, but now his emotions are numbing over, encasing him in a haze of forgetfulness and apathy.
He's starting to lose it.
Everything.
His mind, his personality, his enthusiasm.
He starts thinking that maybe it would've been better had he kept everything held down inside of him, because at least then there was something there.
But now he's released it all through his tears, his gasps, his sobs, and it's gone, without any chance or hope of ever returning, leaving him a brittle and empty shell. He walks through the days without seeing, without hearing or noticing, and he knows everything's going to hurt a lot worse once it all comes back, hitting him full force and knocking him to the ground where he'll break into a million pieces all over again.
.
.
It's late at night, the apartment dark and quiet. The clock ticks slowly, the hands blurring as Blaine tries to read them.
He's slouched over the table, an almost-empty bottle of Heineken clutched between his fingertips. A muted throb pulses through his temples, and his eyelids feel heavy with exhaustion.
He drifts off and on, too tired to stay awake, too energized to go to sleep. And for a moment, he feels like he's floating, his surroundings spinning around, his stomach churning.
There's a second, but he comes to his sense long enough to realize that someone is carrying him through the hall. He watches the ceiling pass overhead, and then a doorframe until he's in the bedroom. His body meets the soft, warm fabric of his bed, and he rolls over, curling into a ball.
A sense of safety overcomes him, and a name slips sloppily from his tongue.
"Kuuurrt," he slurs.
And there he is, joining Blaine on top of the covers.
Blaine smiles lopsidedly, his bloodshot eyes sparkling with strange excitement. He moves forward, reaching for Kurt, his fingers slipping a little as he finds Kurt's shirt and grabs it fiercely. He lowers himself, pressing his lips to Kurt's, fishing for a distraction from the real world of hangovers and heartbreaking pain just waiting for him.
He half expects Kurt to object, to push him away, but surprisingly, Kurt kisses back, grabbing Blaine's waist and tugging him close.
It's one night of bliss, one night of letting go, of tragedies forgotten, and love to remember, and both of them just wish it was enough to outdo everything else.
.
.
Blaine has been dreading this, but he can't push it off any longer.
Madeline and his grandparents need help to clean out his mother's house, and preparations are still waiting to be made for the funeral. It stabs his heart to think about how real this is, how he can't just keep pretending anymore.
His mother's gone.
And she's never coming back.
And cleaning her house, throwing away her things, picking out her casket - it's going to be so incredibly painful, but it's something he needs to do. He just wishes he wouldn't have to.
But on Sunday, he packs his bags and dries his eyes, putting on his brave face, and on Monday morning, his fingers intertwined with Kurt's the two of them board the plane to Huber Ridge, Ohio.
.
.
The plane touches down in the early afternoon, and Blaine feels his confidence start to leave him, flying behind along with his stomach as the plane slows to a stop. Kurt gives his hand a gentle squeeze, and he forces a smile for his boyfriend's sake.
Blaine somehow moves himself forward, through the airport and on through his hometown.
It's painful.
It's incredibly painful. Beyond belief, but he hates showing weakness, so he powers through it. A horrible, empty ache settles in his chest, and his lungs feel tight, and his head swims with a combination of sadness and anxiety. But still, he doesn't let any discomfort show.
When they arrive at his aunt's house, he greets everyone with a grin, hugging and kissing and putting on his brave face. He eats dinner with them, no matter how nauseous it makes him. He sits, and he talks, and plans with them, trying his best to ignore every little thing that reminds him of his mother. From the way his aunt gazes at him, to the pictures hanging around the house, to even just the similar aroma of the rooms. They all stab just a little more at his shattered mess of a heart, but he doesn't make it obvious from the outside.
He and Kurt room upstairs, tucked away in the guest room.
And no matter how much he simply wants to cry himself to sleep, he won't allow himself to do so.
Instead, he curls up in Kurt's arms, gripping to his boyfriend for support and stays awake until the exhaustion pulls him away into an uncomfortable slumber.
.
.
It's strange.
Blaine wakes up, a thought poised in his mind. He realizes that because of all this pushing back, and running away, he's forgotten a vital part of this whole ordeal.
He doesn't know how his mother died.
.
.
He finds Madeline in the kitchen, perched at the table with a mug of fresh, steaming coffee in front of her. She scribbles on a piece of paper, a whole array of them spread out beside her. She turns as Blaine enters the room, looking just as ragged as he feels.
Her hair is in a messy bun, tangled and greasy. Her face is pale, her eyes tired and dark, and Blaine is sure he doesn't look much better, if not worse.
"Hello, Blaine," she says, sounding utterly exhausted.
"Hi," Blaine replies quietly, and he pulls up a chair, collapsing into it.
"I'm just going through some stuff, filling out paperwork for legal issues and whatnot," Madeline says, writing down a few words and continuing reading.
Blaine nods, and stays quiet for a moment, trying to get up his courage and think of the right way to say this.
"Madeline?" he asks, and his voice is serious. She turns without a hesitation, a hint of concern laced through her expression.
"What is it?" she asks, setting down her pen and giving Blaine her full attention.
He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. "There's- there's something you didn't tell me," he starts, his voice nearly a whisper, quiet and afraid. "You didn't say . . . you never told me how . . how she - "
He breaks off, finding it extremely difficult to continue. He puts his face in his hands, sighing deeply.
"You want to know how she died?" Madeline guesses, and Blaine nods into his fingertips. "I'm really sorry I didn't say. I was in shock, and - and I guess it skipped my mind." Blaine doesn't move, but listens as the chair next him creaks, and he knows Madeline shifted her weight.
"Well," she starts awkwardly. "You know that she'd been struggling with high blood pressure and cholesterol lately." She waits a second, but Blaine makes no sign that he's going to interject, so she continues. "She was starting to get really stressed. Things were getting busy at work, and she didn't know what to do with herself since you'd gone off to college. It was strange for her."
Blaine nods, not sure if he wants to hear the rest.
"It was a stroke," Madeline continues. "Simple as that. She kept coming to me, complaining of headaches, and by the time we figured it out and got to the hospital, we - we were just too late."
Blaine doesn't know what quite to say. He simply sits there, and before he knows it, tears are streaming down his face.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, not exactly certain why.
Madeline moves toward him, and he reaches for her, and they hold on to one another tightly, sharing their emotions as they cry together.
.
.
The first task of the coming week is to clear out his mother's house.
He's more terrified to do this than anything, but he knows he has to. It will help him towards acceptance, closure, and moving on.
Madeline drives him and Kurt over to the huge, Victorian home at noon, and Blaine clutches tightly to Kurt's fingers, holding his breath half the time, and taking short shallow breaths the other. He doesn't know if he's ready for this, but he's going to find out.
As they maneuver through the old family streets, his eyes begin to burn. He remembers this place, from so long ago, when he still thought girls had cooties, and boys were only best friends, and his brother was annoying but he loved him anyway, and his father was proud of him, and his mother was happy. And how everything's changed these past years.
The streets now have a sort of eerie darkness, and the bare trees loom down on him, the cloudy sky shielding him from happiness. The grass is dry and dead, covered in part by brown leaves scraping across the ground.
The neighborhood is very different from how he recalls it, and it sort of makes him think that his mother was the life of this place, the reason he loved it so much.
The house however, is exactly how he remembers it, with the cracked pathway to the squeaky screen door, the rickety porch with his grandmother's rocking chair in the corner. Inside, the place still smells of rich coffee and the fresh flower air freshener his mother always had on hand. The smooth leather couches they got back at the beginning of high school still sit in the living room, the glass coffee table with its wooden frame in between them. Old family pictures hang on the stairway, aging from when he and his brother were babies, to elementary school, and at the top, Blaine's senior year picture. His hand moves involuntarily at the sight, but he keeps it to himself, and trudges up all the way.
The first door on the right is his bedroom, and unable to stop himself, he walks in. It's still the same as he left it two months ago, his red comforter piled up by his pillows on his bed, his McKinley letterman jacket hanging on his desk chair, and pictures of him and Kurt spread across the room on his bedside table, his desk, and his dresser.
The sobs are right there, ready to explode out of him, but he hangs on tightly to his last ounces of strength and leaves, moving to the most difficult part of the house.
Kurt slides his arm around Blaine's waist as they enter the room, giving him some comfort, but everything still hits him in an unstoppable tidal wave of grief.
Her bed is still made up, the floral print smooth and unblemished. There's a picture of New Directions on her nightstand, where he and Kurt are smiling proudly, standing next to Sam and Mercedes, and Puck bracing the Nationals First Place trophy. Her cardigan is still draped over the armchair, and Blaine breaks himself from Kurt's grip, rushing forward and snatching it up. He presses the fabric to his mouth and nose, inhaling her sweet perfume and sinks to the bed, the sobs coming through.
Kurt sits down next to him, memories filling his mind of lying down next to his mother's dresser, doing this exact thing, and he holds Blaine until he's done.
.
.
The first day, not much gets done.
Blaine is an emotional wreck, and he can't go for longer than an hour without having to leave the room to go recompose himself. The go for the easy things first, like the bigger furniture and all the food and dishes in the kitchen. And Blaine hopes it will be at least tomorrow or even two days later when they finally tackle the bedrooms, laced with the painful memories.
By six pm, Madeline thinks they've done enough for the day, and they all pile up in the truck, eyeing all the stuff packed into the back. The drive home is rather short, but somehow, the emotional exhaustion catches up with Blaine, and he falls asleep against Kurt's shoulder.
.
.
Kurt is already fast asleep, but Blaine is wide awake.
Almost drunkenly, he stumbles to the kitchen, where he knows Madeline is once again working on funeral arrangements. He sits down beside, like it's almost a routine.
"Hello," she sighs.
"Hey," Blaine mutters.
They're silent for a few minutes, as Blaine watches her look through papers, pulling some out and putting them in a pile beside her.
"Where are you having the funeral?" Blaine suddenly blurts, because it's a thought that's been on his mind, and since it's his mother, he feels like he should have some say in this.
"Well," Madeline stars. "Originally, we were thinking your guys' church, but . . after some thought, I figured the best place would be in the park. Of course, we'll drive to the cemetery the same, but I just wanted the service to be special."
Blaine doesn't need to ask what park, because he just knows. And for once, happy memories fill his mind. Of running around in shorts and a T-shirt, cone in his hand and ice cream dripping down his wrist. Of sitting on a swing, his mother giving him gentle pushes to his back, and then he's flying through the air. Of being curled up after a long day on a picnic blanket, his head resting on his mother's lap as he drifts off to sleep with the sunset in the distance.
Madeline turns to him, a real, sincere smile upturning her lips.
Blaine grins back.
"I think it's perfect."
.
.
Blaine isn't sure how he hasn't broken down yet, because it feels so close to the surface.
But as he glances around his old bedroom, his things packed up for good, waiting to be brought back to his and Kurt's apartment, that sense of emptiness inside of him starts to fill.
He sighs, and turns to walk out, but ends up looking back one last time, resting his hand on the doorframe and giving the sight a sad smile.
In his mother's room, Madeline goes through the difficult stuff, deciding on what to keep and what to throw away. It's hard, Blaine thinks, and he doesn't think that he could do it. He'd want to keep everything, never wanting to let go of anything that was his mother's, wishing to keep her here for just awhile longer.
He looks around and sees just one small box marked keep. Inside is the purple cardigan Blaine had found on the armchair. He reaches inside, rubbing the soft fabric between his fingers.
"That's for you to keep."
Madeline's looking up, eyes wide with understanding.
All Blaine manages is a shuddering, "Thank you."
.
.
By the time Sunday rolls around, Blaine is sure he'll be able to do this, that he's got enough courage to go out there and say his speech and sing his song, but when he arrives, he isn't so positive.
People mill around, chatting, and patting shoulders, and dabbing at eyes.
(And he likes to pretend he doesn't notice that his father isn't here. Alan made his choice when he left the family four years ago).
Blaine reaches for Kurt's hand, squeezing it tightly, and he swallows hard at the lump in his throat as the move forward.
He takes deep breathes, readying himself. He's going to make it through. He's not going to back down.
But all the preparation, all the moving towards acceptance is lost to him as he suddenly realizes that this is all happen. This isn't some nightmare he's going to wake up from. Because all around is his friends and family, some crying, others looking shocked. The chairs are all lined up, waiting for the people to be seated. The pastor is up front, waiting to bless his family, and give them a word of healing.
And at last his eyes catch the thing he's been most afraid of: the casket. His breath catches, and he freezes in his steps.
"Sweetheart?" Kurt asks.
"I can't do this," Blaine whispers. "I just can't."
He turns away, and runs. Runs until he can't anymore. Until his legs throb and he collapses to the hard earth. On his hands and knees, he turns his head to the side and vomits all over the ground.
.
.
Within minutes, Kurt finds him.
He bends down, sticking his hand out, and Blaine finds the strength to grab it.
"You can't back out now," Kurt says softly. "Just hold my hand. And when you lose strength, squeeze it for more."
.
.
Blaine stumbles back to the crowd, his fingers gripping Kurt's, planning to never let go. Slowly, he walks through the chairs, onward to the front of the layout, where his mother's body lies, peaceful and beautiful in her velvet casket.
Tears are falling fast, but Blaine holds tightly to Kurt's hand as he takes one last sweep glance over his mother.
He wants to reach out, to just touch her face, her hands, her hair, but he can't move, so he simply whispers, "Goodbye."
.
.
The service seems to last a lifetime, but at the end, Blaine knows he's done good.
Without knowing how, he'd disentangled his hand from Kurt's, and he went up there. He delivered his speech, he said everything up there he wishes he could've said directly to his mother. But by the end, he was so choked up, so close to breaking down that they decided to skip the song, and he made his way back to his boyfriend.
.
.
The casket-lowering is the hardest part.
He stands there in a sort of daze as the world seems to fall down around him. He watches, helpless and hopeless as his mother's body is lowered into the ground, and he just wishes for one last moment with her. One last time to feel her arms around him. One last time to hear her voice. One last time to hear her smile.
But he knows his wishes won't come true.
.
.
So he simply holds Kurt's hand, resting his head on Kurt's shoulder, and he cries silently as he begins the route to acceptance.
.
.
And it's later that night, when he and Kurt, still dressed in their suits, lay out under the open stars, curled up on a blanket, that he finally feels like he's making progress.
They spoon each other, and their fingers are still intertwined. They talk; about the future, about the past; about everything they can think of, and Blaine realizes that really, he has a whole life to live, that really, his mother wouldn't want him to just give up now, that she'd want him to be happy with this wonderful guy he's found.
And he vows to make her proud.
"Kurt?" Blaine whispers into the silence of the night.
The stars twinkle overhead, the wind rustles through the trees, and the moon shines soft, pearl-like light down on the both of them.
"Yeah?' Kurt asks.
"Thank you," Blaine says.
"For what?"
A shooting star passes overhead, but Blaine doesn't need a wish.
"Everything."
Pairing: Kurt/Blaine
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 5,846
Warning!: minor character death
Summary: Kurt was eight when he went through this hell. Luckily, his father was there to help him through it. Blaine is nineteen when his mother dies, and his father hasn't been there for him in a long time.
He half expects Kurt to object, to push him away, but surprisingly, Kurt kisses back, grabbing Blaine's waist and tugging him close.
It's one night of bliss, one night of letting go, of tragedies forgotten, and love to remember, and both of them just wish it was enough to outdo everything else.
A/N: I don't know where this came from exactly. Just another angsty one-shot.. maybe I should upload some fluff.. like I have any.
i don't quite know
how to say how i feel
if i lay here, if i just lay here
would you lie with me, and just forget the world?
chasing cars; snow patrol
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Blaine gets the call sometime between three and four in the morning. The shrill sound of the home telephone jerks him awake, and careful not to jostle Kurt, he makes his way to the living room as quickly as he can, wishing to silence the head-aching sound.
He's half awake as he mumbles a confused "Hello?" into the receiver.
"Blaine, sweetheart, it's your aunt, Madeline."
Her voice is hoarse, gravelly, and filled with such a clear aching sadness that it kind of scares Blaine until he's fully awake.
She delivers the news, gentle and sympathetic, and is utterly emotional by the end. Blaine goes into shock, shaking his head and telling himself that it's a dream; that he'll wake up, and somewhere he'd let the phone ring on and he'd never actually answered it. Somewhere, he's still asleep, tucked closely next to Kurt in their soft bed.
But it's all real, and it hurts even when he pushes everything away. And when Madeline lets him go, he returns to the bedroom in a terrifying sort of haze. Kurt waits, awake, for him, and Blaine veers straight for his arms, resting his dizzy head on Kurt's shoulder and starting to sob.
He rubs Blaine's back, holding him with an odd sort of fierceness, telling him that he heard the whole conversation, and someday everything won't feel like the end of the world.
.
.
You see, Kurt can't lie to Blaine.
He can't tell him that everything's going to be okay when it's not. He can't tell Blaine that he'll feel better, because he never will; he just won't feel so completely lost. He can't tell Blaine that everything will turn out alright, because he's been through this, and when you lose someone so important to you, it does damage beyond repair.
Things don't ever turn out right.
You just learn to live with them.
.
.
Kurt was eight when he went through this. When his whole world fell apart and he felt so utterly broken, like he'd taken one step and simply shattered into pieces, crashing all over the pavement.
He was only eight years old when he watched his father start to lose it. When he watched his father turn into a ghost of his former self, staying up late and losing sleep, his eyes going dull and his clothes growing larger. So wrapped up in his own despair that he forgot his son was going through this as well.
He was only eight years old when he stood at his mother's bedside and allowed her to lie to him. When he let her talk him into believing that she would be okay, that they would all get past this and be a normal family again.
He was only eight years old when he stood at the side of that grave, the sunlight burning his porcelain skin, causing the tears staining his cheeks to glitter. When he reached up, gripping tightly to his father's hand. When he realized that really, this wasn't the end of everything - just as long as he had his father.
Blaine is nineteen when his mother dies.
When his world falls down around him. When he knows this is the end. Because he's older and smarter and he can understand death like he can understand how to read. Because it hurts so much now that he and his mother had finally been fixing their relationship and truly began connecting. Because he doesn't have a father who cares about him. He doesn't have anyone older and wiser who can make him feel like he can find his way back.
All he has is Kurt, and he prays that their love will be enough.
.
.
In the morning, Blaine starts through the steps of grief.
.
.
He wakes up after a total of twenty-three minutes of sleep, and an overbearingly empty feeling takes up his chest, and he knows that he can't pretend the last night hadn't happened, but he can pretend he's fine.
Because he's Blaine Anderson, and he's an ace at hiding his feelings. Because he's Blaine Anderson, and his biggest fear is showing his weaknesses. Because he hates giving people more reason to show him care. Because he always ends up losing them in the end.
And it always hurts more than he'd ever admit.
And that's why he always puts others first. That's why he devotes his time to helping everyone else see the light. He uses them as a distraction so others won't see the person he truly is. He tells them things like courage and stand up.Because he's never been able to do that himself, and living those things through other people is the only way he can experience it.
Inside, he's tortured and shattered and he hates to admit it. He hates to be taken care of. He hates to ask for help. He's not used it, and it comes as second nature to push others away.
And it's only normal that even in the most difficult time of his life, he should keep this act up.
.
.
The apartment feels cold, the light much dimmer than usual, but Blaine does everything to act like he's surrounded in sunbeams. Grabbing his glasses from the bedside table, he jumps out of bed and makes his way to the kitchen where Kurt is making his favorite breakfast.
He sits down at the bar counter, a pained and forced smile on his face. Kurt shoves the food in front of him and he forces it down, bite by bite as if it doesn't taste like cardboard to his reluctant tongue and his stomach isn't churning more and more with each swallow.
"Are you okay?"
And so it begins.
But before he can retort, Kurt interjects.
"I'm stupid," he says. "Of course you're not." He steps around to Blaine, rubbing his arm gently and kissing his cheek.
"But what I mean to ask is, are you still going to school today? And play practice afterwards? Or are you staying home? I know this is hard. You can take a break if you need to."
Blaine sighs, trying desperately not to sound irritated. "Kurt, I'm fine," he assures quickly. "I'm going to school and I'll be fine."
Kurt opens his mouth as if to argue, but he shuts it quickly, understanding what's going on more than Blaine himself. He sighs softly and nods.
"Okay."
.
.
It's hard.
It's much harder than Blaine thinks to act like everything is wonderful and great. Everything pushed down and hidden away inside of him keeps eating away, threatening to break the surface, and he though he tries his best, others can see.
No one knows, of course.
No one knows besides Kurt. But it's easy to tell that something's wrong, because Blaine is usually so outgoing, so cheerful, so determined and excited.
And things have changed drastically.
And it's not just his appearance, with the ungelled hair, and the crooked glasses. His ghostly-white skin and the lack of sparkle in his dark, glazed-over eyes.
It's also physical.
He clutches his books to his chest, as if they're the glue that holds him together. He grips the strap of his messenger bag so tightly, holding on to it for dear life and turning his knuckles white. A slouch starts to take from in his posture, which is usually so impeccable because of his second nature of performing. He hangs his head just a little lower, his chin tilted down, his eyelids shielding his gaze from the world.
And all of these subtle things are what make the false smile on his face look so strange, and the wideness of his eyes so wrong.
But he plows on, and he brushes off the worried comments, the offers of sympathy, because accepting those things is just not in his character.
But it still doesn't change that it kills him inside a little more every time he does this.
.
.
Kurt lets him be.
He doesn't bother or badger him; try to get any emotion from him at all. Because he knows these feelings. He knows that all Blaine wants is to stay strong. That maybe if he can convince everyone else that he's perfectly fine, then maybe he really will be.
But Kurt is worried.
Because Blaine is acting the same way he did reminiscent of his father having that heart attack back in junior year. He's pushing everyone away, retorting words with a snappy tone and a defiant manner, declining any offers of help and guidance, determined to stand on his own. And Kurt knows that he doesn't want help, that he doesn't plan on acting.
Blaine is sitting in their bedroom with his legs criss-crossed on the bed, his laptop on his knees as he works through his heavy amount of homework. Kurt knocks against the doorframe as he enters the rather dark room.
"You hungry?" he asks quietly.
Blaine shakes his head. "Not really," he replies.
Kurt bites his lip, his heart wrenching.
It's been just over two weeks, and the two of them have hardly talked, have hardly spent any time with each other. Blaine shuts himself away in their bedroom every night, not even bothering to come out for food.
Sometimes, Kurt swears he can hear the sound of loud, shaking sobs coming from behind the door.
"Blaine," he says softly, waiting until he looks up, his hazel eyes so full of pain behind his glass lenses. "You know I'm right here, right?"
"What do you mean?" Blaine asks, his face almost expressionless.
Kurt desperately wants to rush forward, throw his arms around Blaine, and hold him until everything is right in the world, but he knows that Blaine needs his space, and that the world will never really be right.
"If you need to talk," Kurt settles on saying. "If you need a hug - anything. I'm right here if you need me. Forever and always."
Blaine presses his lips together, nodding curtly. "Well, thanks," he says dryly. "But right now I just need to finish this essay.
"R - right," Kurt says, turning halfway. "I'll - I'll be in the living room if you need me. And if you're hungry, just say something."
Blaine nods again, and Kurt leaves before his heart can break further.
.
.
Later that night, the sound of the telephone breaks through the haze of Blaine's mind, and he shakes his head, realizing with a jolt that he'd been staring at his laptop screen for nearly a half hour. He bends back, reaching for the home phone off of the charger.
The Caller ID reads Bolte, Madeline, and he braces himself.
"Hello?"
"Blaine?" she asks. "I'm just calling to inform you that the funeral will be in about three weeks on the twenty-first. In Huber Ridge. I know it's awhile, but there's so much preparation to be done, and I'm working as fast as I can." She sighs. "And I understand if it's too much for you to fly out here. Your uncle and I can pay for it if you need."
"No, no," Blaine says quickly. "Kurt and I can handle it."
"You sure?"
"Positive."
The line is silent for a moment, neither of them sure what to say. "How're you holding up?"
"I'm okay," Blaine says sternly, not wishing to discuss further. "And I'm sorry, but I have to go. I was about to leave for work."
It's exactly seven-thirty-three pm, and they both know it's a complete lie, but Madeline lets him go anyway, and Blaine shuts the phone off just in time to curl into a ball and fight off the oncoming sobs.
.
.
The days drag on.
Darker.
Colder.
And he's slipping away, buried beneath everything he's trying to hold in.
.
.
Just like his luck, Rachel finds him buried away in the men's makeup room. He'd tried to go to his after-school play practice, honestly, but for the first time in his life, the last thing he wants to do is act.
All he's been doing lately is acting, acting like he's okay, acting like he's not in pieces over everything, acting like he's strong enough to go through this alone, and he doesn't have the strength or energy to do it anymore. He's sick of putting on his brave face and lying to everyone. Of putting up this impenetrable front that only Kurt ever seemed able to break through.
The creak of the door sounds, and he turns his face, streaked with tears, blotched with redness.
She stops, frozen in her tracks as she sees him. And then pain flashes across her expression, just a fraction of his own, and she moves forward slowly, bending down beside him. He doesn't move, but simply stares at her, and she takes his hand, gripping his fingers in hers.
He waits for the onslaught of questions, the panicked accusations.
But she simply opens her mouth and says, "I know."
A pitiful attempt at confusion crosses his face, and she clarifies.
"I was worried sick," she says sincerely. "But I didn't want to bother you, so I called Kurt. Don't be mad at him, I would've pestered it out of anyone I could. He just happened to be the one."
An awkward silence follows, and Rachel sighs, cocking her head. She reaches out, her fingers shaking slightly, and she wipes the tears from Blaine's cheeks with a gentle thumb.
He closes his eyes at her touch, wishing to escape.
"I just wanted you to know that we're here for you - Kurt and I. Whenever you need us, just come ask."
Blaine simply sits there, still and silent.
"I'm going to take you home now," Rachel says, and she helps him stand up.
He follows without hesitation.
.
.
It's Friday night, and the Hummel/Anderson apartment is filled with only the sound of sniffles as Blaine regains control of himself, hiccupping softly every now and then. His eyes are bloodshot and puffy, his sinuses clogged, forcing a throbbing in his head and a dizziness overall.
Kurt has an arm around him as Blaine cuddles into his side, desperate for someone to hold onto.
Kurt thought that it would be easier, better when Blaine finally let all of his bottled-up emotions spill out, but in fact, it's been worse. Seeing how much pain Blaine has been hiding is getting to be too much to bear, but Kurt needs to be there for him, and he's trying not to break.
As he brushes a few curls from Blaine's forehead, noting his pale complexion and exhausted expression, Rachel enters from their kitchen, holding a steaming orange mug between her fingers.
"Here," she says softly, bending down and handing it to Blaine. "I thought hot chocolate might help just the slightest."
Blaine takes it with shaky fingers, croaking out, "Thank you."
Kurt sighs sympathetically. "You sound awful," he remarks, planting a soft, lingering kiss on Blaine's temple.
Blaine takes a long, luxurious drink before replying.
"Crying for hours on end can do that to a person." His voice is bitter, cold.
Rachel sits down next them, and reaches over, giving Blaine's knee a gentle squeeze.
"You'll get through this."
.
.
A weekend of sobbing, of clutching tightly to Kurt, of talking his feelings and everything he's thinking helps to clear his mind.
And he goes into the false acceptance.
The calm before the storm.
.
.
The next week goes by in a blur, memories and moments flashing by without the slightest hint of remembrance. Events seem to blend together in Blaine's mind, and he'll find himself at home without and clue how he'd gotten there, unsure what he'd just been doing.
He's dealt with his feelings, but now his emotions are numbing over, encasing him in a haze of forgetfulness and apathy.
He's starting to lose it.
Everything.
His mind, his personality, his enthusiasm.
He starts thinking that maybe it would've been better had he kept everything held down inside of him, because at least then there was something there.
But now he's released it all through his tears, his gasps, his sobs, and it's gone, without any chance or hope of ever returning, leaving him a brittle and empty shell. He walks through the days without seeing, without hearing or noticing, and he knows everything's going to hurt a lot worse once it all comes back, hitting him full force and knocking him to the ground where he'll break into a million pieces all over again.
.
.
It's late at night, the apartment dark and quiet. The clock ticks slowly, the hands blurring as Blaine tries to read them.
He's slouched over the table, an almost-empty bottle of Heineken clutched between his fingertips. A muted throb pulses through his temples, and his eyelids feel heavy with exhaustion.
He drifts off and on, too tired to stay awake, too energized to go to sleep. And for a moment, he feels like he's floating, his surroundings spinning around, his stomach churning.
There's a second, but he comes to his sense long enough to realize that someone is carrying him through the hall. He watches the ceiling pass overhead, and then a doorframe until he's in the bedroom. His body meets the soft, warm fabric of his bed, and he rolls over, curling into a ball.
A sense of safety overcomes him, and a name slips sloppily from his tongue.
"Kuuurrt," he slurs.
And there he is, joining Blaine on top of the covers.
Blaine smiles lopsidedly, his bloodshot eyes sparkling with strange excitement. He moves forward, reaching for Kurt, his fingers slipping a little as he finds Kurt's shirt and grabs it fiercely. He lowers himself, pressing his lips to Kurt's, fishing for a distraction from the real world of hangovers and heartbreaking pain just waiting for him.
He half expects Kurt to object, to push him away, but surprisingly, Kurt kisses back, grabbing Blaine's waist and tugging him close.
It's one night of bliss, one night of letting go, of tragedies forgotten, and love to remember, and both of them just wish it was enough to outdo everything else.
.
.
Blaine has been dreading this, but he can't push it off any longer.
Madeline and his grandparents need help to clean out his mother's house, and preparations are still waiting to be made for the funeral. It stabs his heart to think about how real this is, how he can't just keep pretending anymore.
His mother's gone.
And she's never coming back.
And cleaning her house, throwing away her things, picking out her casket - it's going to be so incredibly painful, but it's something he needs to do. He just wishes he wouldn't have to.
But on Sunday, he packs his bags and dries his eyes, putting on his brave face, and on Monday morning, his fingers intertwined with Kurt's the two of them board the plane to Huber Ridge, Ohio.
.
.
The plane touches down in the early afternoon, and Blaine feels his confidence start to leave him, flying behind along with his stomach as the plane slows to a stop. Kurt gives his hand a gentle squeeze, and he forces a smile for his boyfriend's sake.
Blaine somehow moves himself forward, through the airport and on through his hometown.
It's painful.
It's incredibly painful. Beyond belief, but he hates showing weakness, so he powers through it. A horrible, empty ache settles in his chest, and his lungs feel tight, and his head swims with a combination of sadness and anxiety. But still, he doesn't let any discomfort show.
When they arrive at his aunt's house, he greets everyone with a grin, hugging and kissing and putting on his brave face. He eats dinner with them, no matter how nauseous it makes him. He sits, and he talks, and plans with them, trying his best to ignore every little thing that reminds him of his mother. From the way his aunt gazes at him, to the pictures hanging around the house, to even just the similar aroma of the rooms. They all stab just a little more at his shattered mess of a heart, but he doesn't make it obvious from the outside.
He and Kurt room upstairs, tucked away in the guest room.
And no matter how much he simply wants to cry himself to sleep, he won't allow himself to do so.
Instead, he curls up in Kurt's arms, gripping to his boyfriend for support and stays awake until the exhaustion pulls him away into an uncomfortable slumber.
.
.
It's strange.
Blaine wakes up, a thought poised in his mind. He realizes that because of all this pushing back, and running away, he's forgotten a vital part of this whole ordeal.
He doesn't know how his mother died.
.
.
He finds Madeline in the kitchen, perched at the table with a mug of fresh, steaming coffee in front of her. She scribbles on a piece of paper, a whole array of them spread out beside her. She turns as Blaine enters the room, looking just as ragged as he feels.
Her hair is in a messy bun, tangled and greasy. Her face is pale, her eyes tired and dark, and Blaine is sure he doesn't look much better, if not worse.
"Hello, Blaine," she says, sounding utterly exhausted.
"Hi," Blaine replies quietly, and he pulls up a chair, collapsing into it.
"I'm just going through some stuff, filling out paperwork for legal issues and whatnot," Madeline says, writing down a few words and continuing reading.
Blaine nods, and stays quiet for a moment, trying to get up his courage and think of the right way to say this.
"Madeline?" he asks, and his voice is serious. She turns without a hesitation, a hint of concern laced through her expression.
"What is it?" she asks, setting down her pen and giving Blaine her full attention.
He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. "There's- there's something you didn't tell me," he starts, his voice nearly a whisper, quiet and afraid. "You didn't say . . . you never told me how . . how she - "
He breaks off, finding it extremely difficult to continue. He puts his face in his hands, sighing deeply.
"You want to know how she died?" Madeline guesses, and Blaine nods into his fingertips. "I'm really sorry I didn't say. I was in shock, and - and I guess it skipped my mind." Blaine doesn't move, but listens as the chair next him creaks, and he knows Madeline shifted her weight.
"Well," she starts awkwardly. "You know that she'd been struggling with high blood pressure and cholesterol lately." She waits a second, but Blaine makes no sign that he's going to interject, so she continues. "She was starting to get really stressed. Things were getting busy at work, and she didn't know what to do with herself since you'd gone off to college. It was strange for her."
Blaine nods, not sure if he wants to hear the rest.
"It was a stroke," Madeline continues. "Simple as that. She kept coming to me, complaining of headaches, and by the time we figured it out and got to the hospital, we - we were just too late."
Blaine doesn't know what quite to say. He simply sits there, and before he knows it, tears are streaming down his face.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, not exactly certain why.
Madeline moves toward him, and he reaches for her, and they hold on to one another tightly, sharing their emotions as they cry together.
.
.
The first task of the coming week is to clear out his mother's house.
He's more terrified to do this than anything, but he knows he has to. It will help him towards acceptance, closure, and moving on.
Madeline drives him and Kurt over to the huge, Victorian home at noon, and Blaine clutches tightly to Kurt's fingers, holding his breath half the time, and taking short shallow breaths the other. He doesn't know if he's ready for this, but he's going to find out.
As they maneuver through the old family streets, his eyes begin to burn. He remembers this place, from so long ago, when he still thought girls had cooties, and boys were only best friends, and his brother was annoying but he loved him anyway, and his father was proud of him, and his mother was happy. And how everything's changed these past years.
The streets now have a sort of eerie darkness, and the bare trees loom down on him, the cloudy sky shielding him from happiness. The grass is dry and dead, covered in part by brown leaves scraping across the ground.
The neighborhood is very different from how he recalls it, and it sort of makes him think that his mother was the life of this place, the reason he loved it so much.
The house however, is exactly how he remembers it, with the cracked pathway to the squeaky screen door, the rickety porch with his grandmother's rocking chair in the corner. Inside, the place still smells of rich coffee and the fresh flower air freshener his mother always had on hand. The smooth leather couches they got back at the beginning of high school still sit in the living room, the glass coffee table with its wooden frame in between them. Old family pictures hang on the stairway, aging from when he and his brother were babies, to elementary school, and at the top, Blaine's senior year picture. His hand moves involuntarily at the sight, but he keeps it to himself, and trudges up all the way.
The first door on the right is his bedroom, and unable to stop himself, he walks in. It's still the same as he left it two months ago, his red comforter piled up by his pillows on his bed, his McKinley letterman jacket hanging on his desk chair, and pictures of him and Kurt spread across the room on his bedside table, his desk, and his dresser.
The sobs are right there, ready to explode out of him, but he hangs on tightly to his last ounces of strength and leaves, moving to the most difficult part of the house.
Kurt slides his arm around Blaine's waist as they enter the room, giving him some comfort, but everything still hits him in an unstoppable tidal wave of grief.
Her bed is still made up, the floral print smooth and unblemished. There's a picture of New Directions on her nightstand, where he and Kurt are smiling proudly, standing next to Sam and Mercedes, and Puck bracing the Nationals First Place trophy. Her cardigan is still draped over the armchair, and Blaine breaks himself from Kurt's grip, rushing forward and snatching it up. He presses the fabric to his mouth and nose, inhaling her sweet perfume and sinks to the bed, the sobs coming through.
Kurt sits down next to him, memories filling his mind of lying down next to his mother's dresser, doing this exact thing, and he holds Blaine until he's done.
.
.
The first day, not much gets done.
Blaine is an emotional wreck, and he can't go for longer than an hour without having to leave the room to go recompose himself. The go for the easy things first, like the bigger furniture and all the food and dishes in the kitchen. And Blaine hopes it will be at least tomorrow or even two days later when they finally tackle the bedrooms, laced with the painful memories.
By six pm, Madeline thinks they've done enough for the day, and they all pile up in the truck, eyeing all the stuff packed into the back. The drive home is rather short, but somehow, the emotional exhaustion catches up with Blaine, and he falls asleep against Kurt's shoulder.
.
.
Kurt is already fast asleep, but Blaine is wide awake.
Almost drunkenly, he stumbles to the kitchen, where he knows Madeline is once again working on funeral arrangements. He sits down beside, like it's almost a routine.
"Hello," she sighs.
"Hey," Blaine mutters.
They're silent for a few minutes, as Blaine watches her look through papers, pulling some out and putting them in a pile beside her.
"Where are you having the funeral?" Blaine suddenly blurts, because it's a thought that's been on his mind, and since it's his mother, he feels like he should have some say in this.
"Well," Madeline stars. "Originally, we were thinking your guys' church, but . . after some thought, I figured the best place would be in the park. Of course, we'll drive to the cemetery the same, but I just wanted the service to be special."
Blaine doesn't need to ask what park, because he just knows. And for once, happy memories fill his mind. Of running around in shorts and a T-shirt, cone in his hand and ice cream dripping down his wrist. Of sitting on a swing, his mother giving him gentle pushes to his back, and then he's flying through the air. Of being curled up after a long day on a picnic blanket, his head resting on his mother's lap as he drifts off to sleep with the sunset in the distance.
Madeline turns to him, a real, sincere smile upturning her lips.
Blaine grins back.
"I think it's perfect."
.
.
Blaine isn't sure how he hasn't broken down yet, because it feels so close to the surface.
But as he glances around his old bedroom, his things packed up for good, waiting to be brought back to his and Kurt's apartment, that sense of emptiness inside of him starts to fill.
He sighs, and turns to walk out, but ends up looking back one last time, resting his hand on the doorframe and giving the sight a sad smile.
In his mother's room, Madeline goes through the difficult stuff, deciding on what to keep and what to throw away. It's hard, Blaine thinks, and he doesn't think that he could do it. He'd want to keep everything, never wanting to let go of anything that was his mother's, wishing to keep her here for just awhile longer.
He looks around and sees just one small box marked keep. Inside is the purple cardigan Blaine had found on the armchair. He reaches inside, rubbing the soft fabric between his fingers.
"That's for you to keep."
Madeline's looking up, eyes wide with understanding.
All Blaine manages is a shuddering, "Thank you."
.
.
By the time Sunday rolls around, Blaine is sure he'll be able to do this, that he's got enough courage to go out there and say his speech and sing his song, but when he arrives, he isn't so positive.
People mill around, chatting, and patting shoulders, and dabbing at eyes.
(And he likes to pretend he doesn't notice that his father isn't here. Alan made his choice when he left the family four years ago).
Blaine reaches for Kurt's hand, squeezing it tightly, and he swallows hard at the lump in his throat as the move forward.
He takes deep breathes, readying himself. He's going to make it through. He's not going to back down.
But all the preparation, all the moving towards acceptance is lost to him as he suddenly realizes that this is all happen. This isn't some nightmare he's going to wake up from. Because all around is his friends and family, some crying, others looking shocked. The chairs are all lined up, waiting for the people to be seated. The pastor is up front, waiting to bless his family, and give them a word of healing.
And at last his eyes catch the thing he's been most afraid of: the casket. His breath catches, and he freezes in his steps.
"Sweetheart?" Kurt asks.
"I can't do this," Blaine whispers. "I just can't."
He turns away, and runs. Runs until he can't anymore. Until his legs throb and he collapses to the hard earth. On his hands and knees, he turns his head to the side and vomits all over the ground.
.
.
Within minutes, Kurt finds him.
He bends down, sticking his hand out, and Blaine finds the strength to grab it.
"You can't back out now," Kurt says softly. "Just hold my hand. And when you lose strength, squeeze it for more."
.
.
Blaine stumbles back to the crowd, his fingers gripping Kurt's, planning to never let go. Slowly, he walks through the chairs, onward to the front of the layout, where his mother's body lies, peaceful and beautiful in her velvet casket.
Tears are falling fast, but Blaine holds tightly to Kurt's hand as he takes one last sweep glance over his mother.
He wants to reach out, to just touch her face, her hands, her hair, but he can't move, so he simply whispers, "Goodbye."
.
.
The service seems to last a lifetime, but at the end, Blaine knows he's done good.
Without knowing how, he'd disentangled his hand from Kurt's, and he went up there. He delivered his speech, he said everything up there he wishes he could've said directly to his mother. But by the end, he was so choked up, so close to breaking down that they decided to skip the song, and he made his way back to his boyfriend.
.
.
The casket-lowering is the hardest part.
He stands there in a sort of daze as the world seems to fall down around him. He watches, helpless and hopeless as his mother's body is lowered into the ground, and he just wishes for one last moment with her. One last time to feel her arms around him. One last time to hear her voice. One last time to hear her smile.
But he knows his wishes won't come true.
.
.
So he simply holds Kurt's hand, resting his head on Kurt's shoulder, and he cries silently as he begins the route to acceptance.
.
.
And it's later that night, when he and Kurt, still dressed in their suits, lay out under the open stars, curled up on a blanket, that he finally feels like he's making progress.
They spoon each other, and their fingers are still intertwined. They talk; about the future, about the past; about everything they can think of, and Blaine realizes that really, he has a whole life to live, that really, his mother wouldn't want him to just give up now, that she'd want him to be happy with this wonderful guy he's found.
And he vows to make her proud.
"Kurt?" Blaine whispers into the silence of the night.
The stars twinkle overhead, the wind rustles through the trees, and the moon shines soft, pearl-like light down on the both of them.
"Yeah?' Kurt asks.
"Thank you," Blaine says.
"For what?"
A shooting star passes overhead, but Blaine doesn't need a wish.
"Everything."