YOU HAVE SEVEN DAYS

This chapter is an interlude, I guess. We're going to leave the boys for a moment. This is the first of two interludes, the second coming in chapter eight.. This one focuses on Blaine's father. I decided to save Kurt's interlude for later :3

I totally made up Blaine's middle name, as well as the date for his birthday. I didn't want to just give him Darren's middle name and birthday because Blaine =/= Darren. Also, this chapter contains a very slight spoiler. Really, unless you already know about it, you probably won't even notice it.

WARNING - This chapter is going to go into detail with the aftermath of Blaine's death. And not just the melancholy of the funerals and the drama of a parent burying their child. If gruesome description of death bothers you, or if you don't want to read about your favorite characters' dead bodies and such (keeping in mind how Blaine died and that it was not pretty), then you may not want to read this. I feel like it's important to see how their death affects their loved ones, because we don't get to see it while in their perspective. Hopefully you'll read it, because I'm working pretty hard on this fic, but if you just can't stomach it, I understand completely. No hard feelings.

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CHAPTER FIVE. Interlude.

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It has been an increasingly long day for Harold Anderson.

He is sitting in his study, a lit cigarette hanging from his limp fingers. The ashes are gathering at the end as he has only taken one hit from it, when he lit it. A highball glass sits just within reach with a decent amount of scotch in it. He had poured it hours ago and has been sitting here, staring at it, letting his mind wander instead of tossing it back.

His desk is messy and unkempt, very out of ordinary for him. There are legal papers, a police statement, emails he printed off the computer, from family and friends and members of the community he's known for years. There is a clipping from today's newspaper. This he takes in his hand and holds it up so he can read it for the hundredth time.

There is a grainy black and white photo in the top corner of the clipping, showing his son, Blaine, smiling. It's his school photo from Dalton, so he's wearing his uniform and he looks very put together and like a fine, upstanding young man.

On May 27th, Blaine Anderson died en route to Allen County Memorial Hospital. Blaine was sixteen and was a junior at Dalton Academy, where he was an Honors Student and participated in numerous sports and activities. He played soccer, tennis, ran track, and also was a member of the drama club and the Dalton Academy Warblers, who recently placed 17th at the National Show Choir competition in New York.

Anyone who has ever met Blaine will tell you that he was an amicable, vivacious young man who lit up any room he was in. His enthusiasm was infectious, no matter what he was involved in. When asked, his peers describe him as kind, charming, open-hearted, and confident in who he was. They tell of times when Blaine would put aside his own troubles in order to help others, when Blaine would go out of his way for anyone without being asked. They tell of soccer and tennis games, and performances where Blaine led the Warblers in wowing another crowd. They tell of his uncanny ability to bring music to any gathering, be it spontaneous or planned, how he would have a guitar in the next room or a piano upstairs and a song of his own creation to play.

In my experience with Blaine, as one of his teachers, I saw someone with great maturity. He was, as we like to say, an old soul. Manners have fallen out of fashion with young men these days, but not with Blaine. I can easily recall him being late to my first period Classic Lit class, simply because he got caught up holding a door open for a long line of other students. He always said please and thank you and addressed his teachers as 'Sir' or 'Ma'am', but without any hint of sarcasm. He was genuine, a well-raised boy; his manner a relic of the days when men were gentlemen.

It goes without saying that Blaine is sorely missed. Those that knew him but do not know Dalton should be aware that the junior wing of our school was nearly at a standstill from the loss, and our boys were grieving as though each one of them had lost a dear brother. Though class was still in session the day after Blaine's passing for SAT Prep, we only discussed and reminisced. The seat that was previously occupied by Blaine remains empty in every class of mine, even when I am teaching students not in Blaine's grade. Students who have that seat in other periods must have been informed to move elsewhere, and they take a seat in the back. Blaine may have been a junior, but his presence is all over this school and he has touched many hearts here.

I can safely speak for all of Dalton's faculty and student body when I say that Blaine's family and close friends are in our thoughts and prayers. I can also safely say that, though Blaine is no longer with us, he still leaves his lasting impression. Dalton will not soon forget him, nor will Westerville. He will not be forgotten easily.

At the end of the day though, all that can be said is that Blaine was a wonderful person and it was my sincere pleasure to have taught him, and that I am truly honored to have known him. Dalton will likely not see the likes of Blaine again, but it's just as well, because there are few who could even come close.

- Dr Richard D. Owen, PhD

Professor of Language Arts

English Teacher, Grade 11, Dalton Academy

Harold stares at the clipping of his son's obituary, reading the words and still not believing a damn word of it. Not that Blaine was a good boy and all that. He knows that. He knows Blaine has manners and plays sports and sings in the choir. Of course he knows, and perhaps that stings a little, because how many of those Warblers performances did he miss? How many of those soccer and tennis games did he sit through with his laptop open or on his phone, still conducting business? How many times had he heard Blaine plucking away at that guitar late at night and hollered at him to knock it off and go to bed?

He doesn't believe that his boy is gone. His little boy. He can't actually be gone.

But the image in his head argues the point, and Harold is revisiting that horrific night at hospital, in the morgue, staring at his son's body.

Blaine had not just simply died. He had not appeared to be asleep. The EMTs and the police that were at the scene told him what happened, that Blaine had been crossing the street and was struck by a truck whose breaks had gone out.

The truck had run right over Blaine, smashing his left leg, cracking his head open. His eyes were still open but glazed over and rolled back slightly. His hair was matted with blood. He was littered with open wounds that no longer bled and broken bones and...

Harold lets out a sob. His Blaine, his little boy. The only real joy in his life. He can't believe it. He just can't. It's been days but he still can't fathom the idea that one day, Blaine woke up and walked to school, went about his day as he normally would, unaware that the minutes were ticking down toward zero. And on his way home, he was killed.

His son was killed.

His son is dead.

He'll never hear him playing guitar after midnight. He'll never hear him singing in the shower, thinking no one can hear him. He'll never get a chance to actually watch a soccer game, or a Warblers performance, because there won't be anymore for Blaine. He'll never get to hear about his escapades with his friends again, on those rare chances he was allowed out with them. He'll never get to simply watch the things he does, the little habits and quirks. How he would tap his fingers rhythmically against the banister as he walked up or down the stairs. How he would scuff his feet against the floor when sitting on one of the tall stools at the kitchen island. The way he would always have something to fiddle with; a guitar pick to turn deftly between his fingers, a pen to hit against table tops like a drum stick, sometimes a plain metal ring to spin.

He'll never get the chance to say how sorry he is for being so hard on him. He'll never get the chance to explain, to tell him that Harold's own father never cared one bit what he did, never set guidelines and never seemed to want to acknowledge that he even had a son. Harold had been determined to be a different sort of father the day his wife Miranda told him she was pregnant. Perhaps he was too strong in his determination to set Blaine on the right path. Perhaps Harold's father left traces in him that have gone unnoticed. But Miranda balanced her husband's strict rules by always fussing over their son, always sympathizing with his teenaged drama. She took his side when Blaine came out to them. She kept Harold from flying off the handle, she reminded him that Blaine was still their son, still her baby, and she would love him deeply no matter who or what he was.

"It's the duty of a parent," Miranda had said that night, hours after Blaine had revealed his deepest secret, "to love your child. When they're very young, still a blank slate but developing a cute little personality, you love them. When they grow and become a different person, when they realize who they're really meant to be, then you still love them. Our son may be gay, Harry, but he is still our son... and if this causes you to be horrible to him, or if you somehow find it even possible to stop loving him... Just know that I would never forgive you."

Miranda has been absolutely inconsolable. She has been spending every night so far in Blaine's room, on his hurriedly-made bed, sobbing into his lopsided pillows. She keeps dust from accumulating on any surface in Blaine's room, but never changes it from it's slightly-messy-but-acceptable state. There are still guitar picks lying here and there on the floor, half embedded into the carpet, as though Blaine had been practicing flicking them out to an adoring crowd of fans. There is still a pile of clothes in his laundry basket, the sleeve of a burgundy cardigan still dangling over the edge. There is still an empty coffee cup from his favorite cafe on his desk. There are still sheets of music piled on the same desk, some of it blank and some of it scribbled on in pencil.

Harold cannot bring himself to go in that room. It still looks lived in, like Blaine might come home while Harold is in there, wondering what he's doing, snooping around in his stuff. Blaine has never been the kind of teenager that gives in to anger at the slightest provocation, but he is - was - a teenager nonetheless and one surefire way to set him off would be to invade his privacy. And though Blaine isn't - wasn't - an easily angered person, when he was it was like an explosion. It would blast out of him, quick and hard and searing. And then it would fizzle out and be done.

He had gone in that room with Miranda yesterday to look through Blaine's clothes, trying to find something to bury him in. She cried the whole time, and he couldn't stop himself from joining her. She had said that they needed to pick something nice, something that Blaine would've liked. They had paid a great deal of money to fix him up nice, to close the cuts and the jagged head wound and generally make him look less horrific. They're still going to have a closed casket.

These thoughts send Harold into a tailspin of misery. Picking out the right clothes to bury him in, the last thing he'll ever wear. Trying to decide what to do with Blaine's things, what to do with the money they've been putting away for him to go to college. Looking for a suitable casket. Looking for a place to hold the funeral.

Miranda has decided to have flowers at the funeral. She wants so many flowers that mourners will be sick of flowers by the time they leave. Blaine had always loved flowers, even as a child. She had taught him how to make a dandelion crown when he was little, and Harold was shocked one day to find half the yard devoid of the devilish little weeds, when before it had been overrun. Of course, upon walking through the house, he would find a circle of dandelions on top of lamps and on doorknobs and hanging carefully from the ends of the mantle.

Blaine's favorite had always been peonies, because as he had said to his mother one day, the scent reminds him of summer when he was young. The neighbors had had a few bushes, and little Blaine would sneak over just to smell them. But he'd also been fond of grape hyacinth, and hibiscus, and apple blossoms. Even when he was older, he would go out to stand underneath their apple tree in late spring when the blossoms were shaking loose in the breeze, laughing as the petals fell around him like snow. He would come in, beaming, sighing with pure content, petals stuck in his hair and to his clothes. Harold had seen him at it this past spring; early one Sunday morning before church, the sun just barely having risen. Blaine stood out in the backyard in his Sunday best, arms out, spinning in lazy circles. He had his head thrown back, his eyes closed, a bright smile on his face.

Miranda busies herself going about the neighborhood, asking for flowers. Real, home-grown flowers, not the dyed and lifeless flowers one might find at the local florist or, worse yet, the supermarket. The response has been astounding, and just in their housing addition at least twenty people have promised to bring peonies and honeysuckle and lilac, whatever they can spare. Mrs Miller has offered up her much-envied lilies. Mrs Phillips is making bouquets to put in vases around the funeral home, donating wild roses and snapdragons.

The only flower not allowed is carnations. Blaine had had one pinned to his lapel for the Sadie Hawkins dance, and the flower had clung to him all throughout the ordeal of being assaulted. Even as he was sitting on a bed in the ER, his arm in a sling and a black eye blooming on his face, the flower remained. Torn and battered, a bit crushed, but still serving its purpose. Even so, Harold and Miranda are in agreement that seeing carnations at his funeral would only remind them of the time the world turned on someone so pure and innocent.

He doesn't honestly think he'll make it through the funeral. He doesn't know what he's going to do when that casket is lowered into the ground. He doesn't know how he'll be able to face that headstone with his son's name on it, knowing what is lying in the ground below his feet. Knowing that he will never be able to make things right. Knowing that he never actually told his son that he loved him, knowing that their relationship was damaged after Blaine came out, all because of Harold clinging to ideas of the conservative society he knew so well.

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Nearing the end of the week, Harold and his wife stand in a graveyard late in the day. The funeral has long since been over, and there's fresh dirt in the hole in the ground that they stand in front of. Miranda is sobbing, leaning against him. He really doesn't know how he's still standing, let alone supporting her.

The funeral had been long. It felt a lot longer than it actually was. A lot of people came, and he's so happy in a strange sort of way. It really hit home how loved Blaine was.

"Harry..." Miranda gasps, "Harry, I miss him so much."

"I know," he says sadly. "To be honest, I really don't know what to do now. I don't know how I'm going to keep going... knowing that... I never got to tell him that I love him. Or that I'm so sorry."

Miranda sniffles and shakes her head. "He knew. He hero-worshipped you when he was a little boy, you know." She says this with a watery smile. "You may have had a rough patch, but... He knew you loved him."

"I loved him since the first moment I saw him, in the hospital... He was so tiny."

"He was, wasn't he? Oh, my poor baby..."

He hesitates. He doesn't feel like now is the time to be business-like, but it brings him a sense of normality. He indulges himself and hopes his wife can forgive him for it. "Have you gotten ahold of his brother yet?"

She chokes on her sobs, tries to calm herself before responding. "No... I've been calling but he won't answer. Probably busy. I haven't left a voicemail yet because... I don't think I can say it out loud yet."

Harold can't argue with her right now, so they go back to silence, save for her sniffles and quiet sobs. He tightens his grip around her and stares down at the headstone, his own eyes filling with tears.

Blaine Elliot Anderson

June 5 1994 - May 27 2011

Beloved Son, Brother, and Friend

ar dheis de go raibh a anam

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end of chapter five

Geez, finding an epitaph for Blaine was really hard. :/ It's in Gaelic, because I looove Gaelic. It's such a gorgeous language. And the Blaine in my head was all like "oooh pick that one, that one, I want thaaat one! !" while I was looking up Gaelic phrases for an unrelated project.

Since it can be tricky, here's how you pronounce it:

Ar dheis de go raibh a anam

air esh day guh row a ann-im

'row' as in a fight or argument, or 'row a boat'. 'a' as in the letter A. It means 'may he rest in peace' and is a common phrase used on gravestones etc.

I just want to say that I feel super terrible for doing that to poor Blaine, but you and I both know that he's actually okay. Sort of. :/ Depends on how you look at it, I guess.

Chances are you're wondering how Kurt and Blaine can come back if they've already been laid to rest in reality. I promise it'll make sense. This was one of the plot holes in the game, esp. considering that it took place in Japan where most people are cremated and therefore wouldn't have a body to go back to. So some creative liberties must be taken. I encourage you to make guesses and speculate. :D

Back to the boys next chapter, and if all goes according to plan I ought to have it up soon. I'm trying to update as fast as I can, but I have work and stuff, and I really don't want to screw this up. I've been putting a lot of effort into this fanfic, so if there's something I'm not doing right, or I can improve on, or ANYTHING AT ALL, please let me know. I won't get mad if you tell me I suck, I'll only thank you for your blunt honesty. Love you guys!