This story starts with the screech of tires, a flash of light, and the shattering of glass as blood paints the light gray road an awful, sickly color of maroon. There's a loud moment of chaos, with horns blaring and people screaming and the sound of metal crunching against metal, but then there's nothing but utter silence, cold and chilling. It's starting to snow, the little white pieces of ice that begin to blanket the world staining red. If you didn't know better, you might just say that this is how the story of Snow White begins.

Except this story is no fairytale, there is no happy ending, and no true love's kiss is going to reawake the beautiful prince who sits in the driver's seat, slumped over his steering wheel.

Eventually, the air is filled with activity again; much similar to how it started: with sirens wailing and more lights flashing. The news of the victims is given in hard, comforting voices, and the families and friends affected are left to either rejoice quietly or sob and scream in grief.

There is one there who does neither: a teenager by the name of Blaine Anderson. Though he holds the hands of his friends tightly, when the words are spoken he takes it with dead eyes and deaf ears when the people around him erupt violently. The sound of their sadness and the I'm so sorry, there was nothing we could do is muffled by the dull roar in his ears, and for a moment he's sure he will either collapse or begin to cry hysterically, but instead he does nothing. He quietly thanks the officer, pulls his hands away from his friends, and walks back to his car with those flat eyes, not saying a word to anyone as he drives back home. The silence is deafening when he wraps himself in his sheets, a single tear falling before he finally falls asleep.

00000

He wakes up in bed, blearily looking around as sunlight streams through the window in his room. He's naked under the sheets, which isn't terribly uncommon if he's being honest, but the problem is that he can figure out why. He struggles to remember, but there is no particular dream in the dead of night that presents itself, no fantasy he can recall playing out before he went to bed. In fact, it's as if he can't remember anything at all.

A noise suddenly filters its way to his ears; there's a commotion in the kitchen, the clanging of pots and pans, that Blaine swears wasn't there a moment ago. Nevertheless, he pulls himself out of bed and manages to dress himself decently (strange, Blaine thinks as he dresses, because there weren't clothes on that chair when he glanced at it earlier). He makes his way out of his room, his feet padding softly against the hardwood floor.

Kurt's there, in the kitchen with his back towards Blaine, humming as he expertly pours the batter into the pan. He's dressed in a plain white shirt and boxers, his bedhead sticking out at odd angles that Blaine finds absolutely adorable. He wraps his arms around Kurt's middle, burying his nose in the crook of Kurt's neck and shoulder.

"Good morning," he mumbles softly, inhaling deeply and loving the way the smell of Kurt fills the air around him and makes his head fog up slightly with memories.

"Morning," Kurt murmurs back, turning down the fire once he removes the pancakes from the pan onto a plate next to him.

"You stayed over?"

Kurt chuckles slightly and turns around in Blaine's arms so their face to face. "Of course, silly," he grins teasingly at Blaine, "I always try to stay over every Friday, remember?"

Blaine suddenly feels foolish for forgetting and shakes his head. "Of course," he says, smiling back at Kurt easily.

"Hmmm…" Kurt sounds thoughtful, "Perhaps someone needs a review in exactly why I stay over…" his grin turns naughty as he pushes Blaine against the opposite counter, quickly going for a kiss that turns out to be perfectly sweet and perfectly sinful all at the same time.

00000

He's somewhere else entirely now, and it takes him a while to figure out, but once he does he just feels stupid. He's at the Lima Bean, made obvious by the sudden cup of coffee in his hand. He takes a sip and smiles gratefully; a perfect medium drip, just the way he likes it. He sits alone for a minute, confused as to why he's alone. He's clearly there for Kurt, but there's no Kurt in sight yet. So where is Kurt then?

"Happy Saturday!" a voice calls out. Its appearance shocks him into splashing hot coffee all over his hand, but he smiles gratefully when he sees Kurt settling into the seat opposite him. The hot liquid on his hand is forgotten, and it's suddenly as if it was never there at all.

"Happy Saturday," he greets back, amused by his boyfriend's cheerfulness. "What has you so chipper this morning?"

Kurt shrugs and hooks his bag onto his chair, "No reason," he says nonchalantly. He reaches across the table to grab Blaine's hand, rubbing a thumb across his knuckles. "Have I ever told you how much I love you?"

Blaine squeezes Kurt's hand and tries not to show how the sudden affection makes his heart warm, but he's almost positive Kurt can tell anyways. "Well, what did I do to have such a loving boyfriend, and how do I make sure to always do it?"

"I'm just so happy to have you," Kurt says sincerely, hooking his ankle around Blaine's.

"I'm happy to have me too," Blaine replies jokingly.

Kurt grins and playfully kicks him under the table, earning a quick jump and yelp of surprise, which sets them both off laughing.

00000

He's in another location again, looking around dazedly in confusion. He starts to wonder why this keeps happening to him, but that train of thought is immediately cut off when he notices he's sitting in the Hummel's living room with Kurt's head in his lap. His own feet are up on the coffee table (something he's almost sure is banned by both Kurt and Carole), but Kurt doesn't seem to mind as he sprawls out on the couch. The TV is playing some random crappy reality show and the fireplace is going and they both have blankets wrapped around them. Blaine doesn't remember the last time he's felt quite so warm and homey all over.

"I love doing this with you," Kurt murmurs as he grabs to remote and lazily flips through the channels.

"Doing what?" Blaine asks.

"Boring Sunday afternoons, you know, watching shitty TV and rom-coms all day," Kurt mumbles, making a sound of surprise when he finds When Harry Met Sally. "I'll be Meg Ryan if you're Billy Crystal."

"I'd rather be Tom Hanks," Blaine playfully argues, looking down at Kurt.

"Blaine, our movie is When Harry Met Sally, not You've Got Mail. Tom Hanks isn't an option. We've been over this," Kurt says, sounding bored but with a smile on his face.

"But Tom Hanks is cooler!" Blaine protests. "He's Woody in Toy Story."

"And I've told you that I'm not gonna be Little Bo Peep, so your argument ultimately fails there."

"What if you were Buzz Lightyear?"

Kurt looks up and smacks Blaine with his left hand. "I did not need those images in my head, jerk."

Blaine stares back innocently. "What images?"

Kurt glares at him, eyes narrowing, but Blaine can still see traces of a grin on his face. "The two of us have done things that I would much rather not have associated with my childhood, thank you very much."

Blaine widens his eyes and tilts his head. "What things?"

That Sunday afternoon turns out to not be that boring after all as Kurt drags Blaine towards his room.

00000

It's Monday, which means school, obviously.

There's something off that Blaine can't place. The hallways are too quiet, everyone's voices are too hushed, and people keep giving him strange looks of sympathy that make Blaine's brow furrow in confusion. Almost everyone is avoiding him, which is something he's used to, but there are also numerous amounts of people coming up to him, murmuring things like I'm so sorry for your loss or I hope you're doing okay in soft voices.

He goes to wait by Kurt's locker, but he never comes. Figuring he must already be in class, Blaine walks off to English alone, still confused as to why people cling to the walls and stop whispering when he comes into view.

The rest of the day passes in a similar fashion. People give him wide berth, condolences are continuously given, and so many people ask him if he's alright. And Kurt never shows up once, although Blaine cranes his neck in attempts to find him. Maybe he's absent? Blaine asks himself, but no, Kurt would have called or texted if he was sick. Blaine checked his phone already; he saw numerous calls and texts from the Hummels, everyone in glee club, and even a few teachers (which was beyond creepy, but he shrugged it off), but none from Kurt.

Finally, he gets to glee club, walking into the choir room with a smile on his face, ready for the week's assignment.

Instead, he finds his friends sitting morosely in their chairs, all in varying stages of grief. Tina's sobbing into Mike's shoulder; Santana looks like she's about to murder someone; Joe appears to be either praying or meditating; and Finn just looks lost, but it's different from all the other times he's looked lost, because this one has an overwhelming feel of hopelessness to it. Everyone else has a similar look on their faces, dumbstruck and silent unless they were trying to comfort someone else.

"Hey guys," Blaine says unsurely as he slows his pace. "What's going on?"

Rachel is the first to look up and she's out of her chair with her arms tightly around Blaine's neck before he can even process what's happening. "I'm so sorry, Blaine," she whispers, her words choked with tears.

Blaine stands there confused, awkwardly bringing his hands up to hug her back. "What are you talking about? What's happened?"

Rachel pulls back and Blaine can see that the rest of the club has gotten up as well, all of them dressed in varying shades of black and gray. "We've prepared a song for you, to get you through this awful time of sorrow."

"And we know you might not believe, but the God Squad is praying for you," Mercedes says. Joe, Sam, and Quinn all nod in agreement.

"What are you talking about?" Blaine asks, his bag thumping to the ground beside him.

"We know that it might be difficult to understand now, Blaine," Mr. Shuester says, placing a comforting hand on his back, "But we want you to know-"

Blaine shakes the hand off and all but abruptly pushes Rachel off, taking a large step away from everyone. "Will someone please just tell me what's going on? Why are you praying for me? Why are you singing for me? And please, does anyone know where Kurt is?"

The club is shocked silent by his outburst for a minute. Blaine's fairly shocked too, but he feels like tearing out his hair because for god's sake what is wrong with everyone?

"Blaine," Rachel says slowly, approaching him as if he's a wild animal. "Kurt's dead."

He hears the words but he doesn't hear them at the same time, his mind unable to process what is said. "That's- that's crazy," Blaine protests, a forced grin on his face, "I- I saw him all this weekend. He's f-fine, what are you talking about?"

It's Quinn who walks over to him next, her voice calm and sure. "No, Blaine, he's dead. He was in a car crash last Friday. He was hit by a drunk driver and his car skidded on the ice that formed on the road. We were all there when the ambulances arrived."

Blaine's shaking his head in denial, backing further away from them. "You're wrong," he insists. "He was with me that night. He stayed over, at my house. He's-he's not—" he can't bring himself to finish the sentence, afraid to even say it.

"We saw them pull his body from the car," Puck says. The entire club is walking towards him concernedly, and Blaine just keeps backing away from them. "He didn't even make it to the hospital."

"You're lying!" Blaine yells. They're too close, he can't breathe. Their words just keep twisting round and round his head, jumbling and fracturing until they don't even make sense anymore. "He's not dead, Kurt isn't dead, it's impossible!" They keep reaching for him, murmuring softly to him on and on and on. He's dead, in a car crash, there was blood everywhere, we've been calling you all weekend, didn't make it to the hospital, the glass shattered all over, are you okay? Are you okay? Are you okay?

Sam tries to comfortingly lay a hand on him, and he reacts like a wounded animal, lashing out violently. He tries to throw a punch, growling and yelling incomprehensibly when they force his arms behind his back and try to calm him. "YOU'RE LYING!" he screams. "What have you done to him? Where is he? I swear to god I'll kill you if you've hurt him." He fights, harder and harder, but they just keep trying to shush him and comfort him.

He doesn't know how much time passes, but finally he stops fighting and allows himself to slump over in their arms, muttering over and over to himself. "He's not dead, he's not dead, Kurt is not dead, he isn't dead, it isn't possible." He feels tears run down his cheeks and laughs hysterically, because why is he crying?

Kurt isn't dead.

00000

He's in a white, white, white room.

They tell him that any color might cause him to react badly, so he's stuck in this white room with its white walls and white bed and white floor, in his stupid white clothing. The only form of color he can see is his own skin, or the part of it not wrapped in bandages, and the little cup of dark blue pills sitting on the tray beside him.

He doesn't like the pills. They make him forget, and he doesn't want to forget. They say that they're supposed to make him feel better, but when he takes them, he doesn't feel anything at all. There's a stifling numbness that enters his brain, like his entire body was shot through with Novocain. He doesn't like the feeling.

There's no concept of time, where he is. There's food given to him at standard periods throughout the day, but he doesn't know which meal is which because they're all the same. There's a nurse that comes in every so often to cut his nails (because he clawed at his skin until it bled before) and to brush his hair and change his clothes and do normal things that he's supposed to be able to do but can't for whatever reason. There's another nurse that comes in to give him little cups of blue pills and clear water, and she comes a few minutes later to make sure he's taken them, opening his mouth and searching the bed and the rest of the room for anywhere he might have tried to hide them. She used to stay with him as he took them, but now he's trusted enough to take them by himself, even if he doesn't like them. Sometimes he leaves the room to go outside, which is also supposed to be healthy, and a nurse will wheel him about in his wheelchair for an hour or so, even though he is perfectly capable of walking. He also leaves his small white cell to visit his doctors too, who are all very nice to him, just like the nurses and everyone else that works wherever he is.

He isn't allowed visitors or phone calls yet. He's told he'll earn those privileges later, if he's good and takes the blue pills that make him feel nothing and talks to his doctors and doesn't attack himself or anyone else anymore.

He's stuck forever in the first four stages of grief, cycling endlessly through denial and anger and bargaining and depression, everything flowing and blending in with each other until he isn't quite sure where he is anymore. They're trying to get him to 'acceptance', but he isn't sure how asking him questions about his day and what he ate earlier and if he enjoyed the roses is going to get him to accept anything.

Those three days he spent with Kurt; those absolutely stunning, perfect days he spent, were nothing but dreams in the end, flimsy and weak as they fluttered away on the wind of reality

He's sleeping when he hears it: a quiet whisper of wind, which is impossible because there are no windows in his room and the door is locked from the inside. He sits up in bed, rubbing his eyes tiredly and looking around, until—oh, there he is.

Kurt stands in the middle of the white, white room, dressed beautifully in a dark blue coat and black jeans. The scarf Blaine got him for his birthday is wrapped snugly around his neck and oh, when he smiles, Blaine feels like something inside of him ignites, and the whole room brightens.

"It's time to go," Kurt whispers softly, extending a hand towards him.

Blaine pulls himself out of bed, walking carefully across the room. He reaches out tentatively, scared for if his hand will pass through Kurt's again, like it has before. He grasps it though, reveling in the feeling of Kurt being there and solid and real. Any fear of this being another awful dream is gone, thank god. This is familiar and foreign all at the same time, equal parts strange and comforting.

"Where are we going?" he asks. Dimly, he can hear the sounds of shouting and yelling and the electrical charge of the paddles, but everything fades as he walks closer and closer to Kurt.

"Home," Kurt says.

And together, they walk out of the white, white room through the open door, and head off into forever.