A/N: This is my first Blaine-centric story, which had been brewing up in my head since Season 2 but I was afraid to write it because there wasn't much information given about Blaine back then. However, it is now Season 3 (or post-Season 3, that is) and I was feeling very confident enough to write from Blaine's point-of-view. And so, here it is. This is sort of inspired by the song 'Tie A Yellow Ribbon Round the Old Oak Tree' by Tony Orlando (who is not a designer, Blaine).

Comments/feedback/suggestions are always welcome :)


My family and I moved to Lima, Ohio when I was eight. My dad got a promotion in his company and was relocated to Lima, which was too far for us since we lived in San Francisco. So, we moved. I was excited to move to Ohio. I heard little about it, though. I didn't know what it was like or where it was. But my lack of knowledge about something made it all the more interesting to me.

I've been moving from one state to another pretty much my whole life. I've been through Michigan, Minnesota, Indiana, New Jersey, North Dakota, New York, and Oklahoma before Ohio. I had a scrapbook containing different memorabilia from all the places I've been to. One thing from every place. It's pretty amazing. I used to look at it every night and relive every experience I could remember. From the first time we moved to another state to the first time I've been to Six Flags.

I remember it being a bright and sunny day when we first moved into our new house. Our street was quiet, peaceful, and had plenty of trees in it. It seemed like the typical neighborhood to me. But what stood out was the oak tree standing on a vacant lot. It was the only oak tree in the neighborhood, which I thought was pretty cool. It was quite a couple of blocks away from our house and I had to ride my bike to it, but I didn't mind. The tree drew me in and I was soon spending weekends under its shade, enjoying the cool breeze of the wind and a good read.

I once climbed that oak tree. I was curious to know what I would see from atop, so I got over my acrophobia and climbed it; the sturdy branches supporting my unsteady feet. I held on to the rough and jagged wood and the branches near me as tightly as I could to keep myself from breaking a fall. As I went higher and higher, I saw a clearer view of the neighborhood and the fields beyond. Once I reached the top, all I could see was a breathtaking view. There were birds soaring high above, making them seem closer to the sun with every flap of their wings. Down below, I saw more houses and trees lined along the streets. Everything seemed so tiny, so insignificant. It was definitely a particularly interesting way of looking at things. I saw everything up there. I wanted to stay for a longer time until my dad saw me sitting on the top branch of the tree as he was coming home from work and he ordered me to come down at that instant. He told me never to climb that tree again and I promised to do as he told me, but I still visited it often. It soon became my sanctum.

Our neighborhood was friendly, but my family didn't really make much friends with the neighbors. My mom was a house wife, and she'd spend the days knitting or baking something while my dad was either too busy or too condescending to even bother talking to anyone from the neighborhood. I kept hearing rumors that my family was a group of escaped criminals who moved here from Kansas after my dad broke my mom out of prison for being charged with murder. Which is really sad because that's not even a little bit true. And thinking about that right now, I'm pretty sure that's a Russell Crowe movie.

There were a few children playing in the neighborhood, thus giving me very little opportunity to make friends with other kids my age. I didn't mind at all. I'd just sit under the oak tree and watch the other kids play basketball or tag. I wasn't used to having friends anyway. Since we moved a lot, it was hard for me to make and keep friends, so I made it a habit not to.

Besides, I didn't think I'd make friends with anybody here.

The school was nice and accommodating and I've made quite a few acquaintances. But none too much that I'd have someone to play with. Which, again, I didn't mind at all. I didn't play outside when I was a kid. I spent my free time reading books, watching television, or improving my terrible piano skills. Music isn't very common in my family. At least, in my parents. My brother Cooper and I were basically the only ones who enjoyed music. Our house was quiet day in and day out and the only times you'd hear music would be when Cooper would play his guitar in his room or when I would try to play a record in the living room for about two minutes before Dad asks me to turn it off since it was distracting him from whatever it is that he'd be doing. I didn't even know what he did for a living. It was my understanding that kids aren't supposed to know what adults were thinking or doing, even if they were their own parents. My dad made sure I knew that.

Like any boy my age, I wasn't interested in girls. I used to say they were icky whenever my dad asked me if there was any girl in school that I liked. He always had that hopeful glimmer in his eyes whenever he'd ask me about them and he would look disappointed whenever I told him that I wasn't interested. My mom used to say that I'll probably grow out of it since it was normal for boys my age to feel uninterested towards the opposite sex, and it was a brief source of consolation for Dad.

But I have this curse of discovering things about myself by accident.

It was a bright and sunny Saturday. I remember that memory vividly. It was the perfect day for biking around the neighborhood, and I decided to visit the oak tree and read The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. Everything was peaceful and there were birds chirping, making music in the air. The soft green grass tickled my legs as I stretched them out into the open. The sunrays seeping through the leaves from above me and provided me with enough light to read. The gentle breeze of the wind caressed my face and blew gently through my hair. It was a perfect day.

I thought I was alone in that part of the neighborhood when I heard a man's voice not too far away from where I was sitting. I leaned forward a bit and looked both ways of the street to see if there was anyone there. I squinted a little and to my right, I saw a man wearing a cap and a checkered shirt. It was rare to see adults on the street. I grew curious.

This man was with a boy, a small boy, probably my age. The boy was riding a bike and the man, who I presumed to be his father, was guiding him by holding one of the handles of the handlebar as the boy pedaled slowly. Once he was starting to pedal faster, his father let go of the handle and clapped his hands as he smiled proudly at what his son had accomplished. I wished my dad was like that. My dad never taught me how to ride a bike. It was my brother Cooper who taught me, and I don't think he was very fond of me. In a way, I was slightly jealous.

The boy riding the bike passed by me and I tried to get a good look at him, but he was looking straight ahead. I was only able to get a look at his profile. I found myself gazing at him when he finally looked at me. It was the first time I saw his face. His skin was pale and he had rosy cheeks. His lips were thin and red and his eyes were… well, how do I begin to describe this… his eyes were stunning. Even from where I was sitting, his bright blue eyes stood out from all his other features. His were the most beautiful eyes I've seen.

I only got to look at him for about five seconds when he lost his balance and he fell off his bike, his hands faced down on the ground as one leg was still on his bike and the other was trapped under. He glanced at me before his dad came running towards him in panic, and he turned his head to look at his dad. I wanted to go out there and help him, but I didn't want to be too nosy.

The boy tried to push away the bike that has fallen on him. His father came to his aide and lifted the bike before pushing it away and cupped his son's face with his hand as he asked him repeatedly if he's okay or if anything hurts. He said he's fine and that he his leg just hurt a little, but he was fine. His eyes met mine and I looked away, opening my book, pretending to read, when not a single word registered in my brain after that.

That night, I couldn't sleep. I tossed and turned, but sleep eluded me. I kept thinking about the boy with the bright blue eyes. And I kept thinking about why I was thinking about him. I was feeling something I knew I wasn't supposed to feel. I was terrified. I kept telling myself that it was probably just a part of growing up, as Mom would've put it. But somehow, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.

Morning came and I went to school as usual, keeping the strange encounter with the boy to myself. I knew it would've been better that way.

I went to my classes, but I still couldn't stop thinking about him. It was weird. I tried to do my best in school, but I was distracted. I usually paid full attention to every word and detail in discussions, but that day, all I could think of were those dazzling blue eyes.

As the day wore on, school had ended and it was time to go home. Then, something strange happened. I saw him again. I should've known he went to my school. I didn't know why I hadn't seen him there before. But something told me that the reason I saw him was because I was looking for him.

He was standing at the other end of the hallway and I felt my stomach churning. I knew he could see me because I felt him looking at me. And sure enough, he was.

I gave him one last glance before looking away. I felt my face flush red. Something was definitely wrong. I knew I shouldn't have felt that way. I just knew it was wrong and whatever it was, it wasn't going to go away. It wasn't just something that came with growing up. It was different. And I wanted it to go away, no matter how good it felt.

So, I turned around and walked the other way, trying to get him out of my head.

The following months, I spent more time under the oak tree. I would see him riding his bike on the street alone and I would watch him, pretending that I was reading my book. But in all honesty, I don't think I've ever finished a book under that tree.

Day after day, after school, on the weekends, I would sit under the oak tree with a book in my hand and wait for the boy to pass by even though I knew I shouldn't be waiting. But I kept waiting anyway. I kept waiting and waiting until I heard the sound of rubber wheels against the asphalt ground and I knew that it was him. I tried not to, but I couldn't keep myself from looking at him. And strangely enough, he would glance at me. We could've talked, could've introduced ourselves, but instead, we settled for exchanging glances.

Everyday, I was there. And everyday, the oak tree gradually grew on me. Figuratively, that is. My dad would ask me what I was doing under that tree when I could be doing something else, and I kept telling him that it was a good spot to read a book. He said I could get bitten by something and that I should just stay inside, but I didn't care.

We lived in Ohio for six months until my father was relocated again and I was relieved. That meant I didn't have to see the boy again and I wouldn't feel that weird feeling in my stomach anymore. I had a choice whether or not to sit under the oak tree and watch him pass by. If we moved, that meant I wouldn't have a choice anymore. And I was more than happy to leave and go someplace else like Chicago or Alaska. Anywhere but here.

I wanted to forget about him and his pale skin, his thin red lips, his pointed nose, and his bright blue eyes. And so we left Ohio, leaving an empty space in my scrapbook.

In the next nine years, I've lived a life of normality. Or what I could pass for normality. I tried to forget all about Ohio and the very short time I had lived there. I've stopped putting things in my scrapbook, knowing that if I see the empty space, I would remember that boy again.

When I was 12, I still haven't showed any sign of interest towards girls, and I didn't know it was such a big deal to my dad. I tried looking at girls in my school and I tried to search for any signs of attraction towards any of them, but I got nothing. Then Dad started introducing me to his coworker's daughters. They were pretty and nice, but I still felt nothing. The less I showed interest towards them, the more my dad worried. And it worried me.

Sometimes, I would sneak out of bed and go outside my parents' bedroom where I would listen to their conversations about me. I didn't really understand what they were talking about. But my dad kept telling my mom something about putting me in a closet somewhere and I wasn't so sure about what he meant by that. Could it have been literal, or a figure of speech? So, I asked my brother Cooper what it meant.

I regarded Cooper as a genius. He knew much about everything. I just didn't understand why his teachers gave him low grades when he's actually really smart. He taught me a lot of things. He taught me how to light a match, he taught me how to hold a cigarette (but never actually lit it for me), he taught me how to whistle, he taught me how to blow a bubblegum, he taught me how to ride a bike, he taught me how to T.P. a house, and so much more. When I asked him what Dad meant when he said he'd keep me in a closet, he laughed and said that it was nothing I should worry about. But it sounded like something I should be concerned with. I mean, why would he want to put me in a closet?

I realized there was a lot I didn't know about myself when one day, one of the kids whose older brothers rode motorbikes and smoked cigarettes in school started calling me 'fag'. I had no idea what that word meant, but judging by the laughter of the other kids around me, I knew it wasn't a good thing. I went home that day, curious to know what that word meant. I wanted to ask Cooper, but he'd just say it's nothing I should be worried about, just like he always tells me. I wanted to ask Mom, but she went grocery shopping. The only person left was Dad.

I entered Dad's study that afternoon and he greeted me with a warm smile. I loved seeing my dad smile. For some reason, it made me feel better. So, seeing that he was in a good mood, I went on to tell him about my encounter with the kid at the playground that day. I asked him what 'fag' meant and his smile slowly started to fade. I saw that he wasn't pleased with it, so I stopped talking and waited for his answer. He just looked at me sternly and just like that, the man who was smiling at me a minute ago wasn't the man I was standing in front of anymore.

He told me to ignore that word and never to ask him what it meant ever again. I nodded my head and promised. But if I wasn't allowed to ask him, I was allowed to find out myself, right?

I pulled out the dictionary from our bookshelf in the living room and searched it. As I flipped and turned the pages, I didn't know what I was going to see. I didn't know if it would reveal something about myself, or if it would be an irrelevant word that some dickhead threw my way just because he wanted to.

And then I saw it. My heart pounded as I read the description. I was nervous and I didn't know why, but in hindsight, it was probably because it was so close to the truth. Or maybe it was the truth. The truth that I was ready and willing to deny if I had to.

I refused to believe I was gay. I denied and rejected every theory I've been having about myself after this revelation. It was impossible, improbable, and most of all, unacceptable. To me, to my family.

I thought about what my father would do. He would flip out, sell me to a barren couple, or keep me in a closet, like he said he would. And my mother? She would probably have a heart attack. And Cooper. He'll probably disown me as a brother.

For the next few days, I tried my best to keep what I found out to myself. But the more I thought about it, the more I couldn't sleep. It distracted me from school. I lost my appetite to eat. I barely spoke to anyone. The teachers probably suspected something because before I knew it, I was sent to the guidance counselor's office.

The guidance counselor was a nice lady who was very cheerful and it was somehow comforting. She asked me if I was having any trouble at home with my family, to which I said no. She asked me if anyone was bullying me and I also said no. Although, I didn't know what could qualify as 'bullying' at that time.

I wasn't so sure if she would be understanding of what I was about to say to her, but I gave it a shot anyway. I told her about what I had found out. I told her that I was scared if I was really gay, because it seemed as real as I could see her. She listened all throughout my pathetic narrative, which I was grateful for, by the way. She didn't speak until I was finished. She showed no contempt, whatsoever, as I expected she would. She just smiled at me and told me that it was okay. That it was normal for me to feel that way and that there was nothing wrong with it. She said that some people might not be as accepting of it as others, but I just had to learn to live with it, because that's how people are. I felt like crying at that time. I always thought I was different. But not this way. Not when I could be killed for being this kind of different. I realized that there was a whole population of people who are strongly against people like me. And that just… it really sucks.

She told me that I should tell my family. I wanted to, but I didn't know how. I didn't want to upset my parents. They've given me so much and I could only give them so little in return. And then all of a sudden I find out I'm gay and I could only imagine what it would be like for my parents to live with such a disgraceful member of their family.

She said that I just had to be honest with them and they'll accept me. I doubted that, and she probably saw that I did. So she told me that I should take my time and tell them when I'm ready.

When I was 14, our school had a dance. It was the first time I would ever have been to a dance and I wanted to go. I wanted to experience it. So, I told my parents and they were ecstatic. Especially my father.

On the night of the dance, my dad made me borrow my brother's tux and applied more gel to my hair than I usually did. I looked like the love child of Elvis Presley and James Bond, in some universe where Elvis didn't get married and James Bond was gay.

I was excited to leave, but whenever my parents would ask who my date was, I told them to stop asking because it was embarrassing. They seemed to have gotten off my case and I was relieved. It's not that I was embarrassed, but because I was going to the dance with a very good friend of mine, Paul. Paul was also gay and he had recently come out to his parents when he told them that he was going to the dance with me. It wasn't a romantic thing. I didn't have feelings for him, and I was pretty sure he didn't have feelings for me, either. But it wasn't a custom for a boy to go to a dance with another, so it was kind of like a date.

Anyway, I was waiting for him in the parking lot and his parents dropped him off there. His parents were nice folks. They seemed to be very accepting of their son's sexuality, and it was something that I wished my parents were. It's something I wish every parent was.

The dance was great. Aside from the fact that we didn't really dance at all and that we had to keep our distance from each other most of the time to avoid suspicion, it was a great night. As the night wore on, Paul and I talked. He told me that I should come out to my own parents, too. But I said that they weren't as accepting as his. That not everyone was open-minded enough to see that there are more than just them. That there are people like us, too, who aren't any different from them, that we're nothing more but human, just as they are. Then I realized that my parents were going to find out soon enough, and what other night would be better to tell them than the night when I went to my first dance with a guy?

So I went to my parents' bedroom that night, hoping that they're still awake because I honestly just needed to get it off my chest. Fortunately, they were still up reading books. They asked me what was wrong, and I told them that I needed to tell them something.

My mom was… well, she seemed neutral to my announcement. She seemed a bit teary-eyed, but she still looked neutral, nonetheless. I was glad, in a way. Even though she didn't say anything, at least she looked okay with it.

But my dad looked furious. He looked like I had just told him that he lost his life's savings. Which I thought he would rather have dealt with than me being gay. He then put down his book on his night drawer and got up to his feet. He told me that I was mistaken; that I was still young and I could still change. He told me that I should not entertain such thoughts as that about myself. He sent me to my room and put me to bed. As he turned off the lights and closed my door, I knew I was supposed to be able to sleep and feel peace. I knew that by this time, I should be sleeping knowing that when I wake up tomorrow, nothing would change between my dad and I. But I didn't. All I felt was this pang of pain in my chest. I knew I was gay. I was absolutely a hundred percent sure that I was gay. I knew I would never change. That from here on, I will never change.

I cried myself to sleep that night.

Over the years, I've learned to accept myself completely and wholeheartedly. I've read several articles online about accepting one's sexuality, and it was a great help. I've read about people who have gone through the same things like me and it really gave me hope that there are people like me who are still out there and who are still trying to be accepted by their families, especially their fathers. I knew there were people who I could relate to, but my dad didn't like it when I tried to meet people like me. We had an unspoken agreement to never try to change me as long as I don't flaunt my sexuality to his face. My mother is okay with discussing it with me, and so was Cooper, until he moved out of the house to start his acting career. But up until this day, my dad still isn't okay with it. He's improved, though. Instead of voicing out his resentment and disgust, he just keeps to himself. And I guess in a way, I grew more and more distant from him.

So, now here I am, 17 and still quite the same Blaine Anderson as I was 17 years ago.

Remember when I said me and my family moved a lot? Well, we're still doing that now. My dad was relocated. Again. And this time, I think it's permanent. I'm sick of moving and moving and never even getting the chance to get to know the place and the people before he gets relocated again. It would be nice to live real for a change. To live in a place where I could say 'this is where I live' not 'temporary resident'. And this time, it's somewhere we've been to before.

Lima, Ohio. The last time I've been here was nine years ago. I have to be honest, it feels good to be back. I've been living in the noisy, busy city for a long time now that I have somehow forgotten how it feels like to be in a quiet and peaceful environment. Back in the city, I could barely hear myself think. New York is fantastic, but it's nice to isolate myself from the noise of the cars and the sound of people chatting noisily in the streets.

Just as I've been before, I'm excited to move to Ohio.