A high, persistent beeping interrupts his dreams of summer love and musicals and picnics in the grass until the sun goes down. He tries to reach over to hit the snooze button (five more minutes, just five more) but his arms are weighted down and it feels like someone superglued his eyelids closed.

"Blaine, honey, can you hear me?" Mom. She sounds worried, like she's been crying, and he doesn't want that, doesn't understand what's happened. Someone slips a cool hand into his and squeezes, hard and desperate, so he peels his eyes open.

It's white.

The room is stark white, he's tucked in under a white blanket, his right arm is encased in white plaster, and a stern looking man with glasses and a white coat is peering at him.

"Mom," he whispers, his voice scratchy and raw.

"We're right here, honey," she assures him, squeezing again. He nods, or at least he thinks he does, his body seems reluctant to follow orders his mind is giving it, and tries to focus on what's going on.

He's in a hospital, that much he understands. He tilts his head to the side and sees his mother hovering over the bed, eyes rimmed red and hair mussed; and his father standing in a corner, wiping his wet cheeks. The doctor is asking him questions now, stupid ones like the date, and who the president is, and he's in the process of reciting his birthday when he realizes something is missing, something is wrong.

"Kurt?" he asks throatily, searching the room. He knows his boyfriend, knows he would never give up a chance to sing at his bedside in some immaculately pressed parody of a grieving outfit, complete with a macabre skull pin.

But he's not here, and Blaine's mother won't meet his eyes, and his father steps up to the bed and opens his mouth and the words are coming but his ears are ringing too loudly and it feels like someone is pulling wool over his face and he can't get enough oxygen to his lungs and it's like he'll never be able to breathe again and then suddenly, mercifully, everything is white again.

xxx

He's released from St. Andrews Hospital three days later, and led out to the driveway on a wheelchair like an invalid. His parents ask him if he needs anything, if he wants anything, but he just slams his door in their faces.

He's sure everything smells of him, which is absurd, because they spent most of their time at Kurt's house, or at the coffee shop, or in Kurt's car, nuzzled in the backseat, whispering in each other's ears.

But Kurt, the bastard, still managed to leave his imprint all over his room. There's a picture of the two of them on the dresser, tickets to a production of Rent they went to last month pinned on his bulletin board, sheet music to Candles on his desk.

Blaine wants nothing more than to leap off his bed and start throwing things, breaking everything in sight, but he can't, can't even make himself move, so he just sits on the comforter that Kurt thought clashed with the decor of his room and stares at nothing.

His parents are whispering in hushed tones somewhere in the kitchen, but noise carries in this old house. He catches the occasional phrase: won't talk, needs help and therapist in the discussion, and he just curls into himself further and waits, waits for it to stop hurting.

xxx

Wes and David are standing in his doorway, his mother fluttering behind them offering snacks, or money to go out if he needs it.

They came to visit him in the hospital, he remembers, they brought his iPod and a bunch of old CDs.

"Hey," Wes says when Blaine's mom has finally retreated to the living room and he's closed the door behind him. "How are you holding up?"

Blaine doesn't answer, just stares past them and counts the seconds until they'll leave him be.

"Everyone on the Warblers is worried about you, they wanted to come by but we thought you might not want that."

"Don't suppose you'll let me sign your cast?"

It's silent for a few minutes and Blaine hopes they catch the hint, but David is sitting down on the bed next to him and reaching one arm out to rest on his shoulder. Blaine doesn't flinch away, just sits there numbly.

"Blaine, you know we all loved Kurt too." He wants to scoff, they didn't love him, didn't even know him, but he can't find the air to do it with. "But you have to know, this isn't your fault. No one blames you for what happened."

David is smiling hesitantly at him, and Wes nods sagely, and suddenly it's all just too much. He reaches blindly behind him, hands grasping the first solid object he can find - a snow globe his dad brought him from a business trip in New York when he was seven - and hurls it at the wall behind Wes' head.

"Get out," he whispers. They're staring at him, looking almost frightened, and it feels oddly good. David's not on the bed anymore and he can hear his mother in the distance trilling with barely concealed worry everything alright in there, boys?

"Get out," he repeats, louder this time, and grabs for a book and throws it, this time aiming at David.

They're gone in a flash and Blaine shuts the door behind him.

His mother doesn't come in his room for two days except to bring him food.

xxx

One day his dad comes into his room with tickets to some musical production they're doing downtown, thought we could go, shifting back and forth on his feet uncomfortably before leaving them on his desk.

A few days later his mother gives him the name and number of a man she says really helped the Snyder daughter when she was going through a rough time, just call, just try it sweetie.

Blaine knows this isn't healthy, knows that he can't hole up in his bedroom forever. So, on June 17th he showers, dresses in jeans and a t-shirt, kisses his mom and tells his dad he's going to the movies with some friends.

He gets in his car and drives all the way to Indiana.

He pulls off the highway and buys a pack of cigarettes from a convenience store on Exit 47 and sits on the hood of his car as the sun goes down and the dwindling light flickers patterns in the trees; when he closes his eyes he can almost see promised picnics in the grass, two boys giggling, tossing bread at each other, their faces blurred.

Its a gross habit, totally unfit for the lead soloist of the Dalton Warblers echoes in his head, over and over in a high, clear voice as he lights up with his dad's lighter. He coughs so hard he nearly falls off the car and attracts a few derisive stares. Gazing into the cloudless, darkening sky he swears he can hear a tinkling laugh somewhere in the distance.

It's nearly ten in the morning when he jiggles the key in the lock in the back of his house and pushes it open. His mother is all over him in seconds, screeching and arms flying something about cops and running off and anything could've happened, how could you be so stupid and his dad is standing painfully still behind her, crying. It's such an odd role reversal that Blaine almost wants to laugh, but he's not sure he even remembers how so he walks past his parents and into his room while his mother calls after him.

xxx

His mother signs him up for appointments with the shrink.

Blaine goes because he doesn't have anything better to do, but never talks.

His mother knows, but takes him twice a week anyway.

xxx

June is almost over, taking with it the last vestiges of breeze and clouds and replacing it with humidity and the unforgiving Ohio sun.

The doorbell rings and Blaine ignores it for five minutes before finally peeling himself away from a repeat of a talk show that aired back in May to answer it. His parents are both out for the day, off in Columbus for some outing he can't remember.

"Hey," Finn Hudson says as he swings the door open; Blaine closes his eyes and braces himself for impact.

None comes. Finn is standing in his doorway, awkwardly clutching a large, tearing cardboard box to his chest, biting his lower lip. "Do you mind if I, y'know, come in?" Nonplussed, Blaine stands aside and lets the other boy through.

Finn wanders into his living room where the hosts on TV are still yammering on about some new recipe to try and remarks, "Nice house, man."

Blaine remembers back when he knew what to say, when he was always at least three steps ahead on the conversational chessboard, but now he just stares blankly, numbly for a moment before nodding.

Finn drops the box on the coffee table with a loud thunk and turns to face him. "I, uh, I brought some stuff I thought he might like you to have." Blaine's eyes flick from the box back to Finn. "I know it's not much, I kept most of it, but you can always come see the other stuff if you want."

The lump in his throat keeps him from saying anything, even if he knew what to say.

"Right, well, I guess I'll just go, then." Blaine nods again, and he's beginning to feel like a bobble head doll these days. He follows Finn back to the front door when the taller boy turns to face him again, and if Blaine didn't know better he would have sworn the look on his face was almost hopeful.

"You know, if you ever want to come over, you can. Puck and Mike and the guys, they try, but they just don't get it you know? And Mercedes does, but she never wants to play video games, so I just thought...you know, if you have time, or whatever. You don't have to."

Jesus Christ, Finn-freaking-Hudson, the first boy his boyfriend loved, is staring at him with wide eyes and a crooked smile and his face just radiating absolution for something Blaine never wants to be forgiven for (forgive means to forget, and he can't, won't) and it's all too much and suddenly he's overcome with the same feeling he had when David placed his hand on his shoulder and he has the overwhelming urge to punch Finn in the jaw.

Instead, he slams the door in his face and thinks that he's really gotten good at that lately.

xxx

That week he breaks all the stupid toys lining the therapist's desk, hurling them one by one into a wall.

His father frowns when he sees the bill, but doesn't say anything.

xxx

The box goes into the darkest corner of his closet, where he pretends to forget about it.

xxx

July comes and Blaine is back at the hospital.

"Almost there," says the nurse with kind eyes as she yields the slightly intimidating saw cracking through the plaster on his arm.

"What would you like to do to celebrate?" his mom asks with the bright, fake smile she always seems to be wearing these days. "We could go out for ice cream if you like, or go bowling, you love that..."

He wants to say yes, he wants to push that tinge of desperation out of his mother's eyes, but he can't seem to make the words come out. Instead, he shakes his head and looks down at the ground; tries not to hear the sigh.

His arm feels lighter, emptier.

"There you are, son," the nurse says brightly. "Good as new."

xxx

The sun beats down on the back of his neck and he can feel his skin burning as he walks in sandals and shorts down the road.

He knows the way like it's imprinted on his brain, despite the fact that he's never actually been.

Yellowing grass scratches his feet as he turns into the large plot of land for the first time, the air tasting bitter and foreign.

Wandering through the maze of headstones he takes note of what each of them say; male, female, young, old. Some who barely got to begin their lives, others who lived far past their prime, and none of it seems fair.

It takes nearly an hour, but he eventually stumbles onto a small, unassuming headstone proclaiming Mary Hummel Beloved Mother, Wife, Friend. His breath catches in his throat as he looks to his right and sees the array of flowers and other trinkets adorning a patch of grass that looks like its just recently been planted.

Have to, have to, have to do this he chants over and over. His knees sink to the wet grass; someone just watered this area, and he thinks in an odd way that it's nice, nice that someone is taking such good care of this corner of the graveyard (graveyard, oh god, graveyard).

"Hey, Kurt," he chokes out, tracing the letters on the headstone. There's a rock sitting on top of it, and a voice in the back of his mind offers Rachel as an explanation. People have written all over the stone in colored markers, making it resemble nothing less than a page in the back of a yearbook.

He feels tears slipping down his cheeks and thinks it's a little ironic. Kurt's the one who mastered the crying quietly routine; Blaine rarely cried but when he did it was loud and messy sobs that rack his body, nothing like the simple elegance of misty eyes and a single tear.

"I don't know what to say," he admits, feeling incredibly stupid sitting in front of a grave when he'd told his parents he was just going for a walk around the block. They'll probably be worried by now. "I'm sorry I wasn't at the funeral."

He'd been unconscious for the first day in the hospital and had to spend another three 'recovering.' He was eating lime jell-o while Kurt was being lowered into the ground, and the thought makes him want to vomit.

"It was a nice service."

Blaine jerks, no longer alone, and turns to face the intruder. "Mercedes."

"It was, very proper, very elegant. But not at all what you would've wanted," she adds, with a small, sad smile. She's not looking at him, instead her eyes are focused on the stone in front of them. "I wish I would've tried to help plan, but...you know." She trails off, and Blaine wants to say no, he doesn't know, he doesn't know anything anymore.

Mercedes places a bouquet of flowers, far too many colors and the stems all different lengths on the ground and traces patterns in the grass, seemingly unperturbed that he hasn't answered. "You'd hate these, I think. I never asked what kind of flowers you like, though, so I figure I'll just bring all different types and eventually I'll get it right."

"Tiger lilies. They were his favorite." It's like a fact from another life entirely, the memory of spring break and Blaine goofily picking Kurt up for a date waving a couple of hastily picked flowers from his neighbors garden; 'tiger lilies, how ever did you know,' that shy smile reserved just for him.

"Oh."

They're quiet for a while, and the silence is suffocating him. He's waiting, waiting for her to do something, to yell, to cry, to scream at him, but she's just sitting there whispering stories about Finn and Rachel and New Directions and the new clothing line that he would just love, as if Blaine isn't even there.

The tears are flowing harder now, streaming down his face and he can feel snot running out of his nose; he tries to wipe at it but it's pointless, and god if Kurt could see him now, but he can't, won't ever, and it just fucking hurts.

"Why don't you hate me?" It comes out soft and small, like a child waiting to be scolded, and for the first time in his life, Blaine truly hates his voice.

"Because he loved you."

"But I killed him."

And that's it. Weeks of silence, of dancing around the subject at dinner tables and doctor appointments, and it's finally out, spoken aloud for the whole world to hear.

He waits, but the reassurances never come; she doesn't argue the point, doesn't promise him anything, doesn't say those hollow words it's not your fault that lost all meaning the second day of his hospital stay.

Instead she simply repeats, "But he loved you."

He cries now, true, painful sobs so fast he can hardly breathe, but for the first time in over a month it doesn't feel empty, it feels like release. He doesn't know how long they sit like that, her arms clasped at the back of his neck with his face nuzzled into her shoulder, but by the time they part the sun went down and the cemetery is almost completely empty.

Mercedes looks at him, straight in the eye for the first time that day, cupping his jaw with one soft, warm hand. "If you think I wasn't pissed as hell at first, you're wrong. I wanted to blame you, to hate you, to get some sort of karmic revenge because it's not fair, none of it is. But he's gone, and nothing is gonna change that. All we have left of him now are the people that he touched, so stop wallowing. You can sleep over at my house tonight, you shouldn't walk home this late."

It's bossy and blunt and all the things that normally bug him, but Blaine can't help but smile, because this is the girl who Kurt loved and shopped with and had sleepovers with, so he stands and follows her out of the graveyard, their fingers laced together in the moonlight.

xxx

He eats breakfast with the Jones family the next morning, chocolate chip pancakes and bacon.

They let him use up the last of the syrup and for the first time in what feels like an eternity he's just a little less lonely.

xxx

"Dude, you seriously suck at this game." Blaine tries to steer the car back onto the race track and grumbles in response.

He and Finn are sitting on his living room floor, with popcorn and candy playing one of Finn's video games. It's the fourth time this week that Finn has shown up on his doorstep with his console and snacks and puppy dog eyes that he now understands why Kurt had so much trouble refusing.

"Do we need to go back to the easy level?"

"Shut up, Finn." Blaine's not used to being crappy at something; he doesn't like it much. They sit in companionable silence for a few minutes, only broken by Finn reminding him that he's going the wrong direction.

"Kurt used to kick ass at this game." Blaine can feel his intake of breath, cold and sharp, but doesn't say anything, just focuses on the trying to stay within the lines. "I was convinced he stayed up at night practicing, because there's no way he could beat me like that. It's cool though, since I could whoop his ass at Grand Theft Auto any day of the week."

Finn's smiling fondly at the memory, and Blaine wants so bad to get there, get to the place where he can remember and talk about him without feeling like his stomach is going to come out of his mouth.

Blaine's lost three more races and changed characters twice before he speaks, his voice caught awkwardly in his mouth, words tumbling over each other inelegantly. "It was a car accident, you know," he says dumbly, as if Finn doesn't know, as if the truth of that fact isn't emblazoned on him every time he looks at a basement door or an empty place at the dining room table. Finn doesn't acknowledge what he said, just keeps playing, but Blaine continues on anyway.

"It was raining, and I made him give me the keys. I hate the way he drives, he always dances to Lady Gaga or Beyonce on the radio. He said I was being so old-fashioned, archaic, caveman-like but he gave them to me anyway." There's a ghost of a crooked grin on Finn's face, like he can practically picture Kurt striding through the parking lot, hurling sarcasm back at his boyfriend, like he's just out of reach, trapped in the recesses of a memory that's already too foggy.

"We were driving, we weren't even all that far away from his house and he was talking about something your choir teacher did, making fun of the way he sang some song in front of the group, and he was doing the dance moves in his seat, and I was laughing and watching him." Finn's tense now, his hands gripping the controller so that his knuckles are bulging and white, and Blaine wonders why Finn doesn't stop him, why doesn't he just stop himself, but now that he's started he doesn't know how (doesn't know how to do a lot of things lately, apparently)

"When I looked back at the road there was this thing - it looked like a deer, but it turned out to be a dog - and I swerved and slammed on the brakes. It was so fast; he didn't even have time to react. I don't even know if he knew what happened when he...I don't know what was going through his head."

Finn's virtual car has idled to a stop, but Blaine's still going, rounding the turns and approaching the finish line. "And you know the worst part?" he asks, deliberately ignoring the obvious. "I didn't swerve fast enough. I still killed the fucking dog." The profanity slips out unintended, but it feels good, empowering almost.

Finn stares at him incredulously for a moment before choking out a cough, then starts laughing, like this is the most hilarious thing he's ever heard in his life. It's not, Blaine knows it's not funny, not really, but he finds himself giggling along with him, and soon they're both collapsed into hysterics, rolling around on the carpet trying to catch their breath.

"Shit," Finn finally manages between snickers. That about sums it up, Blaine thinks as he tries to regroup. He can feel tears on his cheek; he doesn't care though, he's fairly certain Finn's eyes aren't usually that bright either.

"Poor dog," he muses quietly. "Bet no one bedazzled his casket."

xxx

"I killed my boyfriend, who also happens to be my best friend, right before summer started," he announces on a Tuesday appointment in the beige colored room where he's sitting upright on the stupid, cliched couch.

If Dr. FeelGood is at all surprised to hear him speak after weeks of silence, he does a damn fine job at covering it up. "Hm," he says, his expression never changing, not even for an instant, and he writes something down on that yellow pad on his lap.

"I did, it was my fault. I made him let me drive, then didn't pay attention to the road. I know about hydroplaning, I aced my driver's test, and I still slammed on the brakes in the middle of a storm. It was my fault."

"And how does that make you feel?"

Blaine stares at the man, shocked. "Well not all that fucking great, asshole."

xxx

August ushers in back-to-school shopping, clean, crisp notebooks, and an air of beginnings.

He leaves the house more, mainly because he can't stand the way his parents tip toe around him these days, waiting for him to explode. Finn still comes by practically every morning to play video games, and sometimes ping pong if they're up for it, but eventually they start venturing outside, walking around the neighborhood aimlessly, just because they can.

Mercedes drags him over to her house for spa time every Friday, and Blaine really has no interest in getting a pedicure but he lets her do it anyway because she smells like honey and scolds him when he nicks the paint.

He hasn't seen his cell phone since sometime in early June; the constant barrage of well-meaning messages made him nauseous so he threw it in the laundry basket and ignores its existence. Wes and David have come by a couple times, but his mother turns them away for him. He doesn't really understand why it's somehow easier to talk to people he's only known a few months than the friends he's had for years, except.

Scratch that, he knows exactly why, and he does feel guilty for ignoring his friends who mean well, but really, that's pretty far down on the list of things he feels shitty about these days, so he lets it slide.

His mother is standing in his doorway holding a bag full of new clothes for him to try on, saying things like wonderful sale and fresh start this year and he nods and walks by her, wandering out of the house aimlessly.

Two buses and a few mile walk later and he's back at the cemetery, tracing the now familiar path to his grave. He didn't bring flowers, instead he places a couple of magazines, Vogue and Elle on the grass, he thinks those are his favorites, though he never paid enough attention (wished he had now, wished he had listened to every snide remark about starlets fashion like they were the most important comments in the world).

"Hey, Kurt," he says, and he's a little worried about how easy this has become. Just a month ago and he was stumbling over the words, looking around anxiously to see if people were watching, but now he speaks to him like he's right there, like he can talk back at any moment.

"Schools starting soon, a few more weeks. The Warblers are probably starting practice soon, they always get a jump on the new school year. You'd be heading back to McKinley though, I guess.

"Senior year, you know? My parents keep talking about colleges and scholarships and all that, but I don't know anymore. Everyone seems to be getting so much better and I'm just stuck. Mercedes still cries at night, I hear her when I sleep over, but then she wakes up and she still knows how to smile, and she goes out shopping and spends time with friends because she says that's what you want. And Finn is sad and lonely, but he's starting football practice and he and Rachel are getting back together, I think anyway, you're right it's impossible to keep track of their relationship drama. But they're all moving on and I just don't know how. I hate feeling like this, like the world is still spinning and leaving me behind because I don't want to leave you behind, because I can't, because you're still everywhere.

"God, things were supposed to be so different." His fingers trace patterns on the headstone, like he's twirling Kurt's soft hair through his fingers again, or caressing his pale cheeks softly, like they might break if he pushed too hard, too fast. "You're supposed to go to New York, and I'm supposed to go somewhere in New England, and eventually you'd realize that there are so many guys out there better for you, better than me, and you'd break it off. I'd be miserable for a few months, but I'd show up on your doorstep with a lyrically inappropriate song and I'd convince you that I'd do anything for you - for us."

He laughs ruefully; a lawnmower starts in the distance. "Christ, Kurt, I had a plan."

That's probably his problem, he always thinks so far in advance, but never contemplates the present. He was planning how to spend his 50% Gap discount before he'd even gone on a date with Jeremiah; he was deciding how to kiss Kurt goodnight before they'd made it halfway home. Kurt always said he needed to be more impulsive, less structured.

"Well I'm pretty much flying blind these days, so I guess you got your wish," he mutters.

The grass rustles behind him, and Blaine immediately drops his arms and turns around. The boy who starred in Kurt's nightmares for months is standing in front of him, hands thrust deep in his pockets, the look on his face one that Blaine has become far too acquainted with; the desire to run etched on his features, but the determination to stay, to receive the punishment he knows he deserves overruling it.

Self-loathing.

Blaine stands, his knees wet and stained green and brushes off his clothes, the need to be proper coming back to him as he looks Dave Karofsky in the face for the first time in months.

"I hate you," he whispers, the words almost lost in the wind and the buzzing of grass being cut not too far away.

Karofsky nods, not flinching away from his gaze. "I know. I'm sorry."

It's not okay, he terrified and harassed Kurt, a boy who did nothing but keep his secret, and he scared him out of his school, sent him to Blaine, Blaine who loved him and killed him and it's his fault, it can all be traced back to a bigoted jock bully, and fuck he wants to blame someone else, anyone else, just for a moment, just an instant of freedom

Karofsky is gone by the time Blaine looks for him again, and he feels cold and numb even as sweat drips down his neck.

He doesn't hate Karofsky, not really, but God he wishes he did.

xxx

"I miss him," Finn says while they're walking past the old playground that Blaine used to spend hours at climbing the jungle gym and ignoring his dad's urges to learn out to shoot a free throw.

It's so simple and true, the earnestness written all over the taller boys wide, expressive face, that when Blaine opens his mouth to answer he can't, the lump in his throat is too big, too strong to overcome, and he knows he must resemble a dying fish.

Finn slings an arm around his shoulder and they don't say anything for a long while.

xxx

"Did you mean what you said that day? Did he really love me?"

"Yes. A lot. Honestly it was kind of annoying."

"I did too. I wish I told him that. I was planning something special...I wish I just told him."

"He knew. Really, everyone knew."

xxx

"So New Directions is holding this end-of-summer barbecue this Sunday," Mercedes remarks too casually while tearing her closet apart for 'the perfect first-day outfit.' McKinley High goes back next week, but Dalton is a private school, so school doesn't start until after Labor Day.

"Huh," he grunts back, skimming through a trashy magazine on her bed.

"You're invited, if you want to come. You can even be my date, so long as you promise not to wear your uniform." Those colors are hideous, trust me, Blaine, a little turquoise will do wonders to bring out your complexion, just this once, for me.

Shaking his head to rid himself of the unwanted memory, he says, "Besides you and Finn, I won't know anyone there. Well, Rachel too," he amends. Mercedes cringes at that, making him wonder what exactly she heard about their disastrous date, but he decides he probably doesn't want to know.

"Everyone wants you to come, it'll be fun. Dancing and karaoke. It won't be the same with only eleven people. You haven't come to any all summer, you're due." That strict, no-nonsense tone is back, so much like when Kurt ordered him to stop wearing sandals with socks or so help me God, Blaine, you will be single before you can finish fastening the velcro.

"What, there were others?" he asks blankly. Mercedes finally disentangles herself from her belt collection to give him her full attention.

"Yeah, we texted you about them all summer. We had one a couple weeks ago, a fourth of July one, one right after...after it happened. Finn said he left you messages."

Blaine looked down awkwardly, shuffling his feet on the pink carpet. "Oh. I haven't really been reading messages much."

She cocks an eyebrow and sneers, she's prepping for a fight. "When was the last time you even looked at your phone?"

"I dunno, I've been busy," he mutters, hoping she'll back off.

"What was that?"

"It's buried somewhere in my hamper under my Dalton uniforms which haven't been washed since May." They still smell of him, that particular lavender scent he's not ready to say goodbye to yet.

Her eyes soften somewhat; it's that look he gets whenever he runs into people he once called his friends from Dalton, that barely disguised pity and he fucking hates it because he doesn't deserve it, doesn't want it.

"Blaine, people have been calling you. You can't keep punishing yourself like this. I wouldn't have survived this summer without Tina and Artie and hell, even Rachel and Puck. We need each other now, don't you get that? We're all that's left."

"Whatever," he mutters and tries to push towards the door; he doesn't need to listen to this anymore.

"Why do you think I drag your antisocial ass over here every week?" He pauses in the doorway, trapped. "It's not because you're such a joy to be around. It's because you knew him, knew him in a way that I didn't, that I couldn't, and I want to now. I want to hear about all your dorky dates and all the stupid fights you had, and I know you had them, you can't be close Kurt and not be subjected to his bitchiness every once in a while, and God knows you're no saint. That's what these barbecues are for, they're a way to remember and get to know him better."

Her voice is getting higher as she talks, pleading, desperate, and Blaine can't bring himself to turn around when he says: "Why bother? He's dead."

xxx

Dead

Blaine makes it halfway home before pulling over on the freeway and hurling onto the cracked pavement.

Three months, and this is the first time he's actually said the word.

xxx

Blaine doesn't leave his bedroom for two days. His mother knocks, his father yells, they both beg, but he just rolls over and ignores them.

On the third day the doorbell rings insistently for an hour. Someone's pounding, yelling, words like open the damn door and not mad, we're not mad, and come on, please, I'll let you win this time I swear slip through the cracks in his window and he closes his eyes and waits for Finn to leave him alone.

xxx

"I want to die."

Dr. Blowhard shifts a little in his chair and writes something down on that pad that Blaine is seriously curious about, he's starting to think it's just a really detailed pornographic drawing or something.

"I want to die, but I can't, because he didn't, he didn't want to die, and that wouldn't be fair, so I have to live for him. I think that's my punishment." He's worked this out in his three days of solitude, thinks this is the karmic payback he deserves, this is how the universe takes it's revenge on him for destroying a bright future of someone who shone too bright for this town.

"Blaine," the therapist starts, and he's actually looking at him now, straight in the eye, and his pen is lying limply in his hand. "Do you really believe what you're doing right now constitutes living?

And well fuck it if Blaine doesn't want to just slug the bastard in the jaw right then.

xxx

School is starting in just over a week, Blaine's counting down the days in misery. For the first time since he transferred to Dalton he's dreading the return, he can't take the constant presence of people, people who care, who want to help, he's sure it will suffocate him.

He's searching in his closet for a uniform to pack because his mother threatened to do it herself if he didn't start getting ready (he can't let her in this room, it has to stay the same, exactly the way he left it that night) when he stubs his toe on the box he abandoned months ago.

His breath hitches and he kneels down carefully in his cramped, dark closet, his hand reaching blindly for the open box.

I, uh, I brought some stuff I thought he might like you to have

Eyes closed, he puts his hand in.

It's practically empty. He fishes towards the bottom to come up with something, it's soft and warm in his fingers and he pulls it out. The gray scarf tumbles into his lap, the same one Kurt wore when they confronted Karofsky, Kurt sitting on that stairwell looking just shy of broken, wallowing in his lost dreams of romance. He'd fiddled with it's edges when they went out to lunch that afternoon (and fine, ok, maybe Kurt was right, maybe he did have boundary issues) and told him he thought it was cute, so different than anything he saw in Dalton's monotonous hallways.

Kurt had worn it proudly on their first official date and Blaine had grinned like a moron.

Cradling it carefully in his arms, Blaine reaches in again and his hands clasp around a small metal rectangle. Kurt's ipod. They'd dated for four months and not once had he been allowed to touch it; it was sacred to him (that and the fact that he'd broken about six of them and Mr. Hummel refused to buy him another). There's a sticky note on it, the words go to the glee songs playlist scrawled hastily with a half-hearted smiley face in messy handwriting he has to guess belongs to Finn.

His fingers tremble as he scrolls through the list (Superstar playlist, Songs Rachel Ruined for Me, Romantic songs, For Dreadful Days Only) until he reaches the one marked simply Glee. His breath is coming in fast, short bursts now as he places the earbuds in and presses play.

A gorgeous, clear voice soars over the opening lines something has changed within me, something is not the same and something deep inside Blaine breaks yet again and he feels the floodgates opening and tears are coursing down his cheeks and he's sobbing like he hasn't since that day in the graveyard, since he was a child and he broken his ankle during a soccer game.

He doesn't know how long he cries in his dark closet but eventually the doors open and the next thing he knows he's being enveloped into his dad's strong arms, holding him like he hasn't in years, and he sobs and screams and begs until he finally falls asleep to a harmony of Kurt's pure melodies and his dad's rough lullabies.

xxx

"I don't want to go back to being a boarder at Dalton," he declares during dinner, interrupting his parents stilted conversation about their work days. "I want to be a day student this year."

His mom is gaping at him, her fork dangling loosely from her fingers. "Blaine, school starts in less than a week. We've already paid your room and board."

"I know. But I can't go back, not full-time, I don't want to."

There's a steel to his mother's eyes now, she's gearing up for a fight, and judging by the way his dad pushes his seat back from the table and cringes, it's one she's been preparing for a while now.

"Blaine, honey, I understand you are going through an incredibly difficult time right now." No she doesn't. "But shirking all of your responsibilities, ignoring your friends, and hiding out isn't the way to handle it. You have to go back to school, you need routine, you need some order, so you can get back on track with your life."

"Mom," he pleads, and he wonders how he never noticed how exhausted she looks these days. "I can't go back to how it was. That's gone now. This is what I want to do."

She opens her mouth to argue, but his dad is placing a hand on her wrist, saying something Blaine can't hear, and then he's excused back to his room.

Two hours and a lot of angry shouting later, and his dad enters his room and announces that if they can get back their deposit, and on the condition that he keeps up his grades and focuses on college applications, he can live at home this year.

xxx

"Blaine," Finn looks confused ('he always looks confused, even at the simplest instructions,' but Kurt was just bitter that day because his glitter-dove idea hadn't worked out). Blaine has only been to this house once all summer, bringing with him conciliatory donuts (Finn will forgive anything for food, I swear, problem is he thinks it goes both ways, so every time he shrinks my designer jeans he shows up with pizza, and honestly how are extra carbs going to help in that situation?) and the offer to play some video games, so long as they can do it over at his place. Since then Finn showed up on his own, taking the two hour drive and never asking anything in return, and Christ, Blaine feels like a dick.

"Uh, hey. Is Mr. Hummel home?"

"What? No, he's at the garage. Did you want to talk-"

"No. Can I come in?" Still nonplussed, Finn steps aside and lets him in. The familiar scent of oil and home-cooking assaults him as he enters, but the aura of lavender is more distant, faded.

"Look man, whatever happened, I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to piss you off, neither did Mercedes."

Blaine almost laughs; he thinks he could probably be a convicted serial killer and the students of the McKinley High glee club would still dole out forgiveness and acceptance like it was nothing. He loves the Warblers, but watching New Directions perform, loose and easy and so freaking happy he can see the appeal, can see why it was so hard for Kurt to leave them, why he would want to go back.

He can't say that though, it'd be too weird, too wrong, too honest, so he says, "You didn't do anything, Finn. It was me. I just needed time, I guess."

Finn nods and he looks like he gets it (of course he does, they all do, that's what they keep telling him). "So did you want to play?"

"Maybe later. I was wondering...I just went through that box of things you gave me, and you said maybe I could come by and look at the other stuff..." he trails off awkwardly, and glances towards the basement door.

"Sure, of course. I know I should've given you more of it, I was gonna let you have his books and everything, but he was always trying to get me to read them, and I couldn't quite give them up and, well, I'm pretty sure he'd haunt me forever if I went near his skin care stuff, even now." Finn laughs, but it's high and choked, and Blaine wants to comfort him, but doesn't know if he can.

Finn leads the way, pushing the door open and flicking on the light that illuminates the spacious, sparsely decorated room that Blaine had laughed at the first time he saw, 'It's just so...not you, I guess' he offered at Kurt's mildly offended expression, 'well maybe you don't know me as well as you thought you did.'

"I can give you privacy, if you want," Finn says, awkwardly hanging back on the top of the steps.

Blaine hesitates a moment, then shakes his head. "No, uh, I'd like it if you did it with me." Finn's face brakes into a huge grin, and he bounds the rest of the way down the stairs.

"It's pretty much how he left it. I've gone through it a couple times, but I try to keep it how he liked it. He was really obsessive about that stuff."

The bed in the corner isn't made, the CD player is still open and the bottles of lotion on the nightstand are in disarray, like they'd been handled in a rush.

"I found some more pictures of you guys in the desk, I was going to bring them over, but you stopped answering your door. He liked to scrapbook, there are a bunch in the dresser. He let me help make the one for glee club last year, kept saying I needed to use more glitter."

Finn smiles fondly at the memory, but Blaine can barely hear him, he's too busy soaking it all in. The couch where they made out, soft and heavy, until Mr. Hummel banged in the front door; the TV they'd watched endless reruns of America's Next Top Model while Kurt snarked on the contestants and Blaine tried to catch his breath from laughing; the walls Kurt made him promise to help paint that summer, once he chose the color he wanted; the closet that housed all of Kurt's absurd clothes, and what appeared to be a red, rubber dress that when he asked about all he'd received in return was a sad smile and a maybe some other time.

"You okay, man?"

"No," he answers honestly, and really, if that isn't just the understatement of the century he doesn't know what is.

"Yeah, me neither."

xxx

In September school starts and Blaine drives in his dad's car, straightens his uniform, takes a deep breath, and opens the door.

Wes and David probably warned them all not to try and talk to him about it, so all his friends greet him with a big slap on the back and the occasional hug and ask him how he's been. He shrugs in response and makes up some excuse about having to talk to a counselor about his schedule, then sits in the bathroom until the first bell rings.

The Warblers are meeting after classes, at least seven people tell him before lunch. The moment class is dismissed he races towards his car and drives home, not looking back, and pretending that the gnawing guilt in his gut is just hunger; he skipped lunch to study, after all.

xxx

The second weekend after school starts he's lurking outside an unassuming brick house, his radio playing, wasting battery in his car while he gathers his courage.

As it turns out, his courage is interrupted by a loud knocking on his window. He rolls it down, because he's pretty sure this is what it feels like to be caught red-handed.

"Blaine," Mercedes says archly. "Just why are you stalking me this delightful Friday afternoon?"

In the script he'd worked out in his head, this really wasn't how this conversation was supposed to start, but hey, roll with the punches, Blaine. "I, uh, I wanted to say I'm sorry, about everything. The way I talked to you was awful, and all you were trying to do was be a friend to me, so I apologize. Sincerely."

The corners of her lips quirk slightly, otherwise she maintains her indifferent expression. "Well, you owe me a dinner at Breadstix, but after that I think we're square." Blaine smiles in relief, though really, how awful is the McKinley cafeteria food if Breadstix is considered gourmet cooking?

He's so caught up in relishing how easy he got off (never snap at Mercedes, she will slap you into last week, but lovingly) that he doesn't notice she's disappeared from his window until she's buckling herself into his passenger seat and staring at him expectantly.

"What, you didn't think I was gonna wait around another month for you to keep your promise, did you? Drive, I'm hungry."

When they arrive Rachel, Artie, Finn and Tina are waving them towards a booth enthusiastically. It's a trap, he knows it is, but this time, Blaine doesn't run.

xxx

"Why don't you sit down, son."

Blaine does, in the hard, plastic chair opposite the guidance counselor dreading the conversation he's been avoiding ever since school started.

"I know you've been having a rough time lately. Is there anything you'd like to talk about?" He shakes his head no, because really, if this man could say anything remotely helpful Blaine would gladly eat his own foot.

"I noticed you quit chorus this year," the man presses on, all sympathetic eyes and encouraging smiles. "From what I understand you were quite talented." Blaine shrugs, doesn't even bother to correct him that it's show choir, not chorus, even though the words are on the tip of his tongue.

"All right then. I called you in here to talk about college. Have you decided where you want to apply?"

Of all things, that is not what he was expecting when he dodged counseling appointments.

"I don't know," he answers honestly, though he wishes it wasn't true, wishes he knew with such utter certainty what he wanted like he used to. "I guess, I always thought somewhere on the east coast, probably New England." It's been so long since he's thought about college, about his future, or about anything past what to eat and when to shower, the words come out sluggishly, unsure.

"Really? And why is that?"

Blaine stares blankly.

"I don't know. That's just always been the plan."

"Whose plan?"

"I don't know." At this rate, Blaine's pretty certain he's heading for community college. "My dad always said that's where the best schools are. He grew up in Boston, said it was the best city in the world."

"Ah," the guidance counselor says, then picks his words carefully, like he knows to tread lightly, like he's done this before, like Blaine's the normal case, average and brainwashed. "And what do you want?"

The question nearly knocks the air out of him; he's pretty sure it's the first time anyone ever asked him that.

"I want my boyfriend to be alive. I want to be able to go through a single day without feeling like crap. I want to be able to get into a car without being petrified. I want my parents to stop treating me like I'm fragile, like I'm about to break at any second. I want to be able to talk to my friends again, but they're living this completely separate life and I don't know how to get back to where they are. I want to perform. I want to be warm again, I can't even remember how it feels. I want to leave Ohio, I hate it here. I want to be who I am without being scared that people will hate me for it. And I really, really want to want things again, like I used to, to have dreams and go after them, even when I make an idiot out of myself."

The guidance counselor is staring at him, his mouth hanging open slightly, and Blaine thinks at the very least he's cleared himself of ever being viewed as 'average' in this man's eyes again.

He leaves the meeting fifteen minutes later with a handful of pamphlets and statistics from UCLA, UC Berkeley, USC and Stanford, and thinks that the guy might've misunderstood what he meant when he said 'warm.'

That night he stays up past midnight reading them, over and over until the facts are burned into his brain anyway.

xxx

"Finn?" he asks. It's a Tuesday afternoon in October, Mr. Hummel always works late on Tuesdays, so he comes by and pretends to do homework in Kurt's basement.

"Hm?" He's got his pen in his mouth and is scowling at his calculus homework; Blaine thinks it's fairly adorable (and no, he is not getting a crush on his dead boyfriend's first love/stepbrother, because, well, ew).

"I'll make you a deal. I'll save you from the depths of trigonometry hell if you tell me the story behind the red curtain dress in the closet."

Finn's eyes cloud over, misted by memory and regret, but he shakes it off quickly. "No deal. I'll tell you, but only if you tell me why Kurt blasted Teenage Dream nonstop for three months."

Blaine grins as he remembers the way Kurt had lit up that day, and how he vowed he'd find a way to make him look like that always, that he'd wash away all the sadness, and it actually makes his cheeks hurt, and says, "Deal."

xxx

"I can still hear him," he admits to Mercedes one night while she's painting her nails shocking pink and he's humming along to the radio. "Like, when I'm doing something stupid, I can hear him admonishing me for being an idiot."

"He's constantly remarking on my outfits. If you're going insane, we're headed there together, honey."

Somehow the idea of sharing a padded cell with her isn't quite as comforting as she intended it to be.

"But it's still happening a lot. I mean, shouldn't it be getting better now?"

Mercedes finally glances up from her nails, which are kind of unnaturally long, and he reminds himself not to fight with her again, because he really doesn't want to know what they feel like when they're slapping someone. "Do you want it to go away?" she asks carefully.

"No, not really. I probably should though, right?"

"Well you're kind of screwed then. My grandma died six years ago and I still think about her all the time. Kurt's mom died when he was eight, but he was always talking about how beautiful she was, and he used to choose shampoo that smelled like her." Lavender. "I don't think it ever goes away, it just eventually hurts less to think about."

Blaine thinks that that might be a compromise he can live with.

xxx

On Sunday, November thirteenth he inserts Kurt's ipod into his speakers, flips to the Glee playlist, makes a mental note to ask Finn about Pink Houses next Tuesday, and blasts Defying Gravity at full volume on an endless cycle.

While Kurt's voice soars over the lyrics (it's not the version he sang in the rehearsal room, the one where he missed the high F, and Blaine had looked at Finn incredulously when he told him that but hadn't pushed it, it's one Kurt must've recorded himself in his basement, perfect and tragic) he digs through his hamper and pulls out a small, metal device.

He plugs his cell phone into his charger for the first time in almost six months and reads and listens to every message he's received. Some are worried, others are scared, and a few are angry and frustrated. When he's gone through every one he erases them all and lies down on his bed, soaking in the music.

xxx

New Directions wins Sectionals with the unanimous votes of the judges. Blaine pretends he doesn't notice the way Wes and David's shoulders droop for a week afterwards. He wants to reach out to them, but really, their lead soloist abandoning them this year probably didn't help their chances and he doesn't want the guilt trip, can't stand it now.

xxx

The air smells of snow and it's getting to the point that he's started wearing scarves and gloves with his uniform. He's driven to this place three times in the past two weeks and sat in his car across the street for hours before heading home, but this time is different. He gathers all his nerve, remembers his own misguided advice of courage, Kurt, courage, and does what he should've done the moment he was released from the hospital all those months ago.

"Mr. Hummel?"

The man turns around, wearing a dark blue jumpsuit with Burt labelled on the breast. He looks older than Blaine remembers, wrinkles lining his face that didn't used to be there, and his eyes, wide and pale, so familiar, no, Kurt's eyes were greener, like the ocean after a storm, so beautiful he could get lost in them for hours.

"Hi, Blaine," he says after a long pause, his voice weary. "Having car trouble?"

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "God, Mr. Hummel, I'm so sorry." Tears are slipping down his cheeks, despite the fact that he promised himself he wouldn't cry, he practiced this in front of a mirror for a week, but none of that seems to matter in the face of the man whose grief is written so clearly all over his face.

"I know you are, son," Mr. Hummel says quietly. "I know."

It's not forgiveness, and it's not absolution, but that's not what Blaine wants, not what he needs. It's acknowledgement, and for now, that's enough.

xxx

The week before winter break starts Blaine takes a deep breath and pushes open the door to the official Warbler practice room. Wes is trying to restore order while they argue about a setlist for an upcoming performance at a nursing home (before Kurt they never would've left the school to perform), apparently some Warblers are concerned that anything about riding disco sticks could be too suggestive for the senior citizen set. It's like nothing has changed, even though everything in him has.

He clears his throat politely, and slowly the noise dies down and he feels incredibly awkward and stupid standing there after months of silence while they're all staring at him. "I know this is going against protocol," he starts, and he hasn't practiced this, just going all in, because there's something to be said for spontaneity, he thinks now, "But I'd like to re-audition for the Warblers."

David's grinning so widely it looks like his face is about to break and Wes bangs his gavel with a flourish and says, "Warbler Blaine has the floor."

Blaine shuts them all out, ignores their curious faces and eager expressions and just thinks of a beautiful boy with high cheekbones, clear blue-green eyes that crinkled when he smiled, and a voice that was unique and perfect in all it's strangeness and sings:

Blackbird singing in the dead of night

fin