So Hi, I've been pretty MIA, haven't I? I changed my name, I used to be Marvel-0us, but I needed a little change, yah know? I also thought I'd write a new fic, even if I have others going. This one's it, I think. Jamie's been helping me a lot with it as usual. I'm pretty content with this one, I hope you all are, too.
I don't own glee or any of it's characters.
There was something about snow that made Blaine Anderson feel alone. Maybe it was all the white on the ground and the way that so much of it in one place just made everything go silent. He sort of liked it. He liked when it started to snow slowly, so slowly that he could look at a flake, follow it with his eyes, then catch it with his finger. It was relaxing, quiet and just a little bit lonely. Blaine didn't mind though. He was used to his parents hovering around him as if he were a boy made of glass. He was used to his friends bringing him out for coffee with wide, hopeful eyes. He was used to the therapists asking him what the last thing he remembered was.
Blaine Anderson forgot what the last thing he remembered was four months ago.
It was peaceful, for a while, having a blank slate and all. It was nice not having a worry, it was as if Blaine's mind could still somehow sense how over the top things were before, so he could appreciate a little peaceful oblivion. But going to his grandparents' house and not being able to find the bathroom made his chest ache. There was a lot of things that Blaine felt bad about. It seemed as if he could never stop feeling bad, as if it was his destiny to feel full of blame for something he couldn't even remember in the first place.
He watched the kids around him as they slid down the frozen slides and as they hopped off of swings into big piles of snow. It looked fun, as far as he could tell. He couldn't really remember what snow felt like on the end of his seven year old tongue, but it felt better to watch them play. It was almost as if he could feel some ghostly arms wrap themselves around him as he watched, not quite warm, but just there. His memories felt so close when he saw someone who looked like they were doing something he had once done before. People laughing with friends, eating their favorite meal (people keep telling him he likes salad), reading their favorite books, going on walks. It helped seeing other people do things, although picturing himself doing those things felt incredibly alien to him.
So he watched others. The image made him feel a little bit warmer as he stood under the slowly falling snow. Every once in a while he'd watch a little boy or girl grip a swing with small, gloved hands and he'd find himself looking down at his own, too. His hands were larger than the little kids', but if he stared at them long enough, he could almost picture his own being that little, it made his stomach roll, but it felt nice in a way. Sometimes trying to remember made him sick, but it didn't mean it didn't make him feel at least a little good as well.
Sometimes stuff he's known since after the accident disappears from his brain, it comes and goes like a flicker in a movie, one moment he'd be walking into his living room, and the next he'd be stumbling into his coffee table. It angered him so much that one day he shattered a lamp and kicked a wall with such force that his toenail had cracked painfully. When he had finally calmed down, he had cried in his mother's embrace for about an hour.
When you forgot the last thing you remember, you acted like a baby over the little things.
Now at peace, leaning against an old wall, at a park near his home, one that little kids always sat on, he felt relaxed. He felt as if nobody was watching, as if nobody cared right now. It was good, it was so good that even the appearance of a boy clad in leather and just a dash of pink in his hair didn't ruin it one bit.
He noticed the other boy when he saw burning ashes fall into the snow. He looked up to see him, a boy a few heads taller than him, smoking a cigarette. He had on a dirty-looking gray beanie that covered up his chestnut hair. The boy spoke first, his pink lips turning upwards into a very sharp-looking grin and if Blaine was honest, it looked like something evil from one of the many movies he'd watched lately, but surprisingly, his voice was pure heaven.
"I see you here a lot, Humpty," he said, blowing smoke the other way, probably in an attempt to make sure that Blaine didn't catch it all in his face. Though, it happened anyway, because the wind caught up and then changed its path, causing it all to blow into his direction.
"What?" Blaine asked, unable to make sense of the other boy's words and choking a little bit on the smoke.
The boy grinned again. "You know, Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall," he nodded his head at the wall, "Humpty Dumpty had a great fall, yadda yadda, he died."
Blaine stuck his hands in his pockets and shrugged. "I guess I'm here a lot, but I don't sit on the wall much."
"You won't fall then, and we all won't have to put you back together again." Blaine cringed at that, the other boy must have seen it, too. He acted upon Blaine's small movement, his lips twisting from the harsh smile into a softer one, his eyebrows rising, just as his lips had. For the first time Blaine noticed a shiny piercing above his left eyebrow. "Unless you already fell. Wait, have you?" He was leaning in closer, his pink nose pointed upwards and his cold blue eyes looking down at him.
"I-I don't know." Blaine said dropping his gaze.
The boy pursed his lips then, sucking in the winter air as if it were a sin. He flicked his cigarette and watched the ashes fall into the snow. Blaine watched, too, as they fell, they looked as if they were only mere flakes amongst the others, but they weren't. Blaine felt like that, he felt as if he looked like Blaine Anderson, but when it really counted, he wasn't Blaine Anderson. He was a fleck of ash that looked like snow. A fraud.
"I could help you," the boy said softly, his voice like a melody that Blaine wanted to sing along with. "I could help, you know."
Blaine sighed and leaned back against the wall, all of the alarms inside him that usually went off when he talked to someone new (or someone he couldn't remember) were slowly shutting down. He felt his shoulders sag and a deep breath of air released itself from his lungs. "How could you possibly help?" Blaine asked, growing some far away stamina, something he'd thought he'd lost long ago.
"I'm not sure yet," the boy said slowly, dropping his cigarette onto the ground and stomping on it with his chunky combat boot. "I have an idea, though."
He grinned at Blaine's look of confusion. "I'm Kurt, by the way," he said, holding out a gloved hand. Blaine stared at Kurt's hand for a moment. The glove looked as if it was made of leather. Like a riding glove you'd use when on a motorcycle (he'd seen it in a movie, he couldn't remember which one). He wondered if Kurt had one or maybe he just wore the gloves because he liked them.
"You're supposed to shake it, you know," Kurt drawled out slowly, wiggling his fingers.
A wave of anxiety hit Blaine like a train then, it almost made him back away, but he held out his hand towards the other boys slowly. When their hands were almost touching the other boy quickly grasped his hand and shook it, his grip was maybe a bit too firm, but regardless, Blaine didn't mind the simple gesture.
"I'm Blaine Anderson." He said then, supposing after touching hands with the stranger called Kurt that he should introduce himself as well.
The other boy blinked for a moment, but nodded. "Well, Blaine Anderson, it's getting a little dark, I should head home. Meet me here tomorrow and I can help you put you back together."
Blaine nodded, looking down, feeling unsure about this whole thing, but there was something new and exciting about it so he couldn't exactly say no. Kurt pushed himself off of the wall and walked away, leaving Blaine alone. He hadn't notice the other kids leaving as he talked to Kurt.
Kurt Hummel walked into his so-called home. He flipped back a makeshift door, which was made out of plastic. The noise it made when it opened sounded like crinkled paper. It was a good way to notice when someone was coming in and of course, when someone was leaving, too. To everyone he'd ever known, this little room, behind the crinkled plastic was Quinn Fabray's home. They didn't even know it, and neither did Quinn Fabray. When you couldn't meet the faces of most of the people in your real home, you had to make your own. You had to lie and you sometimes even had to steal.
Kurt Hummel was not a religious man, but that did not mean he couldn't feel that he was made of sin. He had killed, he'd lied, he'd stolen and he'd betrayed. His shoulders were heavy from the weight of all that he was, which was funny because he used to walk around with an airless nature. His chin held high and his shoulders back, now it took all that he had not to fall to the ground from the weight that he bore.
It was the little things that helped Kurt. The room and its four walls (even if they were covered with mysteries) and of course, the list. The list of the last few things he'd do before leaving for good (although, Kurt didn't know exactly what leaving meant).
The list was dragged out of his pocket as he opened the door, before he stumbled over to a small desk that wobbled at every footstep that touched the room's floor. He slammed it down on the desk, which caused it to sway like a drunk, but somehow, it didn't fall under the pressure of his hand. It stayed tall. "You persistent bastard," he mumbled and he pushed the paper up so that he could put a hand in its place at the corner of the desk. Soon after, the other one found a place on the opposite side. He bowed his head, the desk was still swaying slightly, his shoulders arched up and he shut his eyes.
He took a few deep breaths, they twisted through his frame as if it were a challenge. His eyes burned when they snapped open, hot tears filled his bottom lids, but they didn't fall. He blinked a few times, his vision growing a little less blurry. His bones ached and so did his heart, but for some reason, his lips were steady, standing their ground in the stance of a straight line. He brushed his fingers across his desk, his breaths coming easier now. He was searching for something. His fingers made their way to small coffee cup and he plucked a pen from it as his other hand grabbed the list and unfolded it. His limbs moved as if they were controlled by somebody else.
The paper was hot against his fingertips, or maybe it was just his fingertips that were hot to begin with. He unfolded the paper slowly, then read down the list for what seemed to be the hundredth time in his life. It was covered in scribbles. Nine of them, to be exact. Nine scribbles over nine lines that weren't even readable anymore, though Kurt had no problem reading past them. He ran his thumb over the tenth line that had no ink scribbled over it. It was bare, clean, open, ready.
Help Blaine Anderson.