Author's note: This is my first blangsty idea, so please be kind…
Blaine and Kurt broke things off the summer before Blaine's senior year, and thing got really hard for Blaine. His father abuse grows, bully's get bad and he starts sleazing around. Five years later the class of 2013 New Directions have a reunion. Blaine is a drug addict trying to be sober, but it's hard when he hates his life when he's not on drugs. Cue Sam and Puck helping him out to be decent for when he sees Kurt. Klaine is not endgame, but they end up becoming best friends again… you'll have to read who Blaine ends up with *Wink Wink*.
Blaine sits knees tugged right close to his chest shaking hard like an old washing machine. Sweat drips from his forehead down to his cheeks, and it ends rolling off his trembling chin. He lost count of how many times he puked, but it was too many. His body felt like it was going to crumble atop itself. He dug his finger nails into the toilet beside so hard that his entire hand was paling. None of the above was the even the worse part. That worse part were the memories that flooded his mind when he was sober.
"Kurt!" Blaine giggled. "I did not start it. Did you see me pick up the snow ball first?"
"You did start it!" Kurt huffed. "You forced us to go outside in the snow which made me mad which made me throw the snow ball."
Snow trickled down from the electric blue sky landing down on Kurt's eyelashes. He blinked them off, and Blaine could help the way he practically pounced on Kurt to kiss him. Kurt was so gorgeous standing outside with red kissing the tip of his nose.
"Blaine!" Kurt shrieked out when they landed on the snow. They both land a soft 'oomph' spilling from their lips. Kurt rolled them over holding Blaine's wrist above his head. "You're such a tough guy aren't you, Anderson."
Giggles and the whistling of the wind was the only sound in the air. Blaine kicked snow up on Kurt's already soaked jacket covered back. Blaine flipped them, so that Kurt was on his back Blaine trapped between his bent knees.
"And you, Kurt Hummel, are such a beautiful man."
It has been five years. Five years since the last day Kurt Hummel and Blaine Anderson were claimed as soulmates. It hasn't been any easier. They say that time heals. Tell that to a cancer patient. Tell that to someone whose soul grows cold with every reminder of their past life. Someone who regrets more every day; who hates the next day even more than the last. Blaine pushes his hand into the sleeves of his oversized hoodies. With the hood flip up, Blaine lays on his side, his back on the bathtub's side, letting the hoodie swallow him whole. He hopes it will swallow all the memories too. It doesn't.
"Kurt," Blaine stammers. "It's just a-I just fell down this morning."
"Bullshit Blaine. Its bullshit, and you and I both know it. Don't lie," Kurt says back softly. He takes a long sip from his coffee cup eyes leering over the rim. Blaine's coffee sits un-touched steam floating into the air.
"Kurt, its fine—"
"No, it's not. It's abuse."
"It's only twice. It's fine."
Kurt's sharp sighs sounds the bell of an argument starting. When he crosses his legs, Kurt rolls his eyes. He replies, "You talk a lot of courage Blaine, but you never act on it."
"What does this have to do about courage?"
"Everything."
"No, Kurt, this has to do about love. He's the only family I have. I love him," Blaine stresses leaning forward, and resting his forearms atop the table.
"Blaine, I care you and love you, but we need to talk."
Blaine clamps his eyes shut hard willing his thoughts away.
"You mean the world to me, but I'm moving and we all know how long distance relationships end. I mean, look at Tina and Mike for example."
He should have said something there. Blaine could have been with Kurt instead of the silence that looms over him. If only he said something. Anything.
"This isn't an official break-up. If you come to New York, I would love to start this up again. I-I just… I'd rather we end this on a good note instead of us hating each other. I love you too much to hate you."
Blaine should have fought. Anything.
"I get it. If you don't want to talk anymore that's fine, but I would like to be friends. Please Blaine say something, so that I don't feel like a monster."
Nothing. Dead air.
"Fine, I get it. Be like that. I'm sorry that I was trying to save the friendship we have. The relationship we built up. I'm sorry for being the bigger person."
Kurt got up leaving with a single tear trickling down his cheek. He left his halfway finished mocha sitting on the table forgotten. Blaine's full cup of steaming coffee gets forgotten too as he stumbled blindly for his car.
Blaine curled in on himself tears following the drops of sweat streaming down his face. A sound of a door squealing open and slamming sounds too far in the distance to be Blaine's apartment. He was wrong. Sam comes stumbling into Blaine's bathroom a grocery bag dangling from his arms Noah trailing after him. Once both of them are in there, Blaine sits up puking for the umpteenth time that day. Practiced sympathetic tuts come from both of their mouths.
"Come on, man, we got you some drugs," Puck said.
Sam rushed out, "But like medical drugs. Not drug drugs…"
"No," Blaine squeaks out
"No?" Puck says.
"No, I'm not going. I can't," Blaine barely murmurs trying to stand up. With the help of hands hoisting him, Blaine stands swaying like a willow leaning against the counter.
"Dude," Sam draws. "You're finally getting sober, and it's for this thing that you're not even going to?"
"I can't. I'm not staying sober. I just can't."
Puck shouts stepping around Sam, "No, you're staying sober, Blaine. You need to get a fucking life."
"I don't have a life outside of drugs, so fuck you," Blaine tries to shout back, but his voice wavers and cracks.
"You're twenty-two. You should have a life outside of drugs. Come on, man," Sam mumbles feeling crestfallen wondering what happened to his best friend.
"Well, I don't. I hate my life without it; the drugs. It's punishment. Not reward."
"Why are you so upset?" Blaine's father asked him, as they sat at the dinner table eating left over spaghetti.
"Kurt broke up with me," Blaine said with hesitation. His father breathe was laboured with alcohol, and bringing up Kurt wasn't the best idea. Blaine should've lied. He knew he should've lied.
"Is that a reason for your grades to be dropping?" Blaine's father asked words slurred and aggressive. "You should be happy to not have that fag hanging around. Now you can find yourself a nice woman."
Blaine looked down at his plate blinking back the teasing tear in the ducts of his eyes. He could feel the burn of his father's dilated dark brown eyes. So dark that they were almost black. The sneer was harsh and intimidating, and Blaine couldn't stand the way his lips were curled like on of a raging dog.
"I'm gay, dad," Blaine whispers, "You know this."
"No, Blaine, this is a disease. I think we need to send you back to the counsellor," he growls before gulping down the entire beer that sat in front of him.
"I'm fucking gay. Why can't you just accept that?"
His father slams his plate onto the floor, so that it shatters in a billion tiny pieces. Spaghetti lies on the tiled floor murdered. Blaine tries to scramble up to his room, but hands slam him into the wall grabbing for his neck.
"Stop this disease, now, Blaine," He breathes onto Blaine's neck. The smell of whiskey burns Blaine's nose. A thick hand is brought well behind his father's head, and onto his cheek.
Blaine's knees crack, as he sinks to the floor, again, coughing up bile until he's just dry heaving. His hands violently shake where they are gripping the edge of the snow colored toile. Throat ripping hacks and coughs pool up the entire bathroom. Sam kneels down beside Blaine rubbing his shoulder while Puck digs through the grocery bag.
"Here," Puck says handing two bottles over to Blaine, "I don't know how well these'll work, but they might ease your misery for a bit."
Sam chimes, "We also got you a rice crispy squares. I know you wanted one earlier. I may or may not have eaten one already."
"Just stop trying to help," Blaine grumbles, "I don't want help. I was perfectly fine before you guys came back. I am fine."
"Tell that to your last doctor report. Gonorrhea? Really Blaine?" Puck retorted leaning against the bathroom sink.
Opening one of the pill bottle with trembling hands, Blaine spills it all over his bathroom floor. He picks one up from the ground, and pops it in his mouth not using any water. Reached hands of Blaine's try to open the second bottle, but are stopped from Sam's still ones. Sam grabs one out, and hands it over to Blaine's quivering palm. Blaine swallows that one without any liquids too.
"I don't know how you do that, dude," Puck whistles.
Blaine smirks, "As a gay man… I get a lot of practice swallowing."
Blaine gets hauled up by Sam and dragged into the tiny living room. His apartment was small. One bed, one bath, a living room, a laundry room and a kitchen. That was it. With the income of a poor stripper and part time prostitute, you get a house that looks like it's one of a poor stripper and part time prostitute. You'd be surprised how many closeted gay men in Lima, Ohio look for an affair to satisfy the carvings that they can't get from their wives. Blaine was when he first started his business.
Plopping himself on the old chewed up love seat, Blaine see's Puck towing a big metal bucket covered in rust. Better safe than sorry. Not that there isn't vomit stains somewhere in the house. Sam and Puck sit in the navy blue arm chairs to the left of the loveseat. The armchairs definitely did not match the color scheme of the apartment. Blaine wasn't too sure if empty space, black, white and brown was really a color scheme though. The two chairs did look really out of place.
Music thumped the floor to a timed beat. Adrenaline made Blaine's heart thump very erratically. He loved the feeling of being on the dance floor because there was not judgement. It was people just being people. Blaine hasn't come home before the sunset in the past three days. His father doesn't care; no one really cares. He likes being at Scandals because people actually pay attention to him. Well, more so his body, but he isn't forgotten pushed into the shadows.
People want him. People actually want to be around him. Want him to have a good time. Want to have a good time with him. Blaine was wanted for the first time in a while, and he loved it.
That's why when somebody pushed him up against the bathroom walk whispering, "I want you on your knees." He obliged with ease.
The man was old, but he wasn't elderly. The tips of his hair were tinted grey. Wrinkles kissed his forehead. The man was dressed in a suit one similar to one of a lawyer or an accountant. He was still working, so he wasn't retirement age. Blaine never had to pay for a drink when we walked into the bar, but he always left stumbling needing a ride. He walked to the bar now not wanting to have to pick up his car every time.
The man he was with always kept his hand full with a beer bottle. Blaine hadn't known how many he had, but he knew it was a numerous amount. He could barely sit still on the bench without waving around like a flag. The man pushed him into the bathroom, and he locked it with an echoing click. That's when Blaine reputation began to bubble. He was easy. A whore.
"Santana and Britney are going to bring their baby. I didn't know that they had it already," Puck says looking up from the white light emitted from his phone.
"Yeah, dude," Sam answers, "I think Santana had her three weeks ago."
"Why isn't there anything on their social media accounts?"
"Because their new parents who probably aren't sleeping. How would they have time to do anything?"
"Touché."
The glee club of 2013\2012 reunion was in two days. Blaine knew he wouldn't be done with the withdrawal completely. If he was lucky, he'll stop puking. If he's lucky. Today, everyone sent in the guests that they were bringing—the invitation that Mr. Shue sent out clarified that they were allowed to bring any family or 'special' guests. Now, everyone in the 'New Directions' group chat were saying who they were bringing. Kurt was bringing his boyfriend. Elliot something. Blaine didn't care to read the rest of the name… or maybe he was too high to remember. He can't remember. His guess would be the latter.
"I'm not going," Blaine murmured, "Tell them I'm not coming."
Blaine doesn't own a phone that isn't hung up on the wall. He sold his cellphone for drugs the way he sold himself. There still wasn't any regret dragging him down, and he hadn't a clue if that was a good thing or not.
Puck chimes, "Too late. Already told the chat that you were coming. Most of them seem excited."
"They won't be when they see me," Blaine grumbles curling into to a tight little ball on the couch.
"I was," Sam says, "I mean, you were drugged up, and being dragged by on old sweaty dude. But I was still excited."
Sam had honestly thought he went mentally insane. He was seeing things. He had to have been because there was no way that right there in front of his eyes wearing shredded black skinny jeans and a white mesh long sleeved shirt was Blaine Anderson. Well, at least not the Blaine Anderson from two years ago. No one had heard from his nonetheless actually seen him. Who would have thought he would end up in Lima? Everyone thought he had run off to Las Vegas or some shit. Black shaded the entirety of his under eye, and his cheek bones were sunk in like a dune. Two years ago his cheeks were pudgy, healthier, while his eyes were bright vibrant. There were always glittering with something even if he was going through some hard things. Now, his eyes were hazy and dim.
"Blaine?" Sam asked.
Blaine swerved and stumbled a step towards the voice that had called his name. A man had his arm circled around Blaine's keeping him upright, and tugging him along to a motel with the name of 'Lucky days Motel'. The bright lights of the sign hanging above the aged motel smiled blinding bright in a neon yellow. Blinking away some fogginess in front of him, Blaine grinned when he saw who it was.
"Sam!" He squealed out with delight dripping over his words, "What is up my man?"
Sam had never heard his words more slurred in his life.
"What happened to you, dude," Sam asked eyebrows creasing together so they become one, "You look like complete shit."
It was true. Blaine was thinner than anybody thought he could be, and he was shaking looking pale like a ghost. He looked sick. Really, really sick.
"Pffft!" Blaine spat out, "I feel-I feel, fucking fine, and this guy right here said he has a big surprise for me. So if you'll excuse me..."
Sam looked at the guy Blaine was with, and his face melted into a frown. The man was old. Older than Blaine by at least twenty years. Maybe even thirty. Though Sam was worried, he had to take a step back, for the older man was sending him glares from drunk eyes. Sam doesn't like drunk eyes. Drunk eyes lead to drunken actions.
"Blaine," Sam says, "Give me your phone."
"He doesn't have one," The man's raspy voice snapped. His voice was one of a smokers.
"How can I reach you?" Sam asked.
Blaine, with a drowsy voice, replied, "I don't know."
"I want to see you again. Where do you work? Can I go there?"
"Just-just," Blaine fumbled a bit with his words, "Can you stop asking so many fucking questions. I can't keep up."
"Blaine," Sam pleads, "Just give something to contact you with. Please?"
"If I give you my address will you shut up?"
For once in his life, Sam was so, so glad he craved cheap cool ranch Dorito's from the sketchy gas station down town. Sam shivered, as the night's wind whipped and whistled around his sweater clad body. He felt a toothy grin spread across his face when he looked down at the piece of paper in his hand. 27, 345 Heritage Square North.
Sam has been to that address nearly every day since he got that slip of paper. He had even been there when Blaine wasn't. Noah had been there too more often than not now because he had moved back to Lima with Quinn, and gained contact with Blaine through Sam. Ever since the influence from his former friends, Blaine has filter from being high and sober more than he used too. Three years ago Blaine was only ever high with a needle stuck in his arm, or a drink in his hand.
They all sat around Blaine's crap tiny television with a thick black part sticking from the back of it. They made it half through the 'Avengers' before Noah's phone shrieked at him.
He stood up, and cracks filled the room from his stiff bones being stretched. He said, "Quinn wants me home for supper. Need a ride Sam or are you staying?"
"Staying. Thanks for the offer, man," Sam replied.
"Who ever thought there would be a day that someone would actually be thanking the Puckzilla."
"Not me," Blaine grumbled, "Definitely not after you just fucking waltzed in my life claiming I needed fixing."
"You'll thank me one day, Anderson," Puck said, as he slipped out the door, "One day.
The door slammed shut with a loud echoing bang. A faint buzz from the television and characters talking were the only sound that surrounded the room. Blaine huffed curling in on himself even more wishing that he could just disappear into it.
"You're so hateful when you're sober," Sam said with hesitation.
Blaine sighed, "Because I hate my reality. To be frank, though, I'm worst during withdrawal."
"That's fair, I guess."
There were these two shadows that always loomed over Blaine in the hallways. Classrooms. Gym. Bathroom. They always trailed him whenever he was at McKinley High in his senior year. The shadows names were Don and Micky. They were greasy characters. Clipped hair in the front of their faces that pooled into long hair at the back. The hair always looked like it had been dipped into a deep fryer. Micky had red hair, and freckled that covered the entire terrain of his rectangle face. Don had a big bushy afro that was only a tad bit darker than his cocoa colored skin. Don and Micky; the power twins of the school. Don and Micky; hockey all-stars and respected puck heads. Don and Micky; Blaine's newest tormentors.
The start of the school year had been fine. A wall of red ice would slap Blaine in the face a few times.
"Here you go, faggot," They would spit.
No one would really notice because, hey, he was the only gay kid in the school, so of course he was going to get bullied. No one really thought he would be targeted. They hadn't noticed.
It had been a little after the beginning of October when things really turned for the worst. Blaine had felt like there were these demons that were attached to his back taunting little thing that was wrong with him.
"What's with the long face? Does your daddy not love you anymore? I'm pretty sure he stopped the day you were born."
"You're a little fucking faggot whose big dreams will turn into dreams of being able to eat food while you look for another saggy dick to suck."
It's funny how true that turned out to be.
The workout room in the school was completely silent except for the little thumps that came from punches being thrown into the red punching bag. While Blaine huffed out little shaky breathes, he felt shadows looming over him. They were leering. Blaine scrambled to un-wrap the bandages from his hands, and stuff everything into his bloated baby boy blue duffle bag. A voice stopped him.
It growled, "Hey there little fairy. Who knew you had other talents than dancing like a girl and getting on your knees. Something that was actually kind or manly."
"I have a lot of talents, frankly," Blaine replied. That was the wrong idea.
Hands shoved him into one of the lockers beside the punching bag. Blaine gasped, as his back slammed into the locker. The air left his lungs. He tried to wiggle out while yelling out into the silent room. The hands tighten, and one flew over top of his mouth.
"Hey," Micky, the fiery haired one, "Shut up? Okay? No one's going to come get you."
Don held up a black sharpie, and un-capped it with a loud snap. He held it up the tip pointed towards Blaine's face. The marker had started dancing on his face. Blaine shut his closed so tight that wrinkles appeared all over his forehead.
The marker stopped, and all the hand left his body. After the two shadow floated away their cackled being ghosted, Blaine slid down the floor heart hammering hard into his chest. Tears gathered in the ducts, but he sniffed them up standing up. He walked over to the mirror to see words scribbled all over his face. His jaw dropped to the floor. 'Faggot', 'fairy', 'butt boy', 'queer' and 'girl' were written in thick black markers all over the entirety of his face. Blaine fumbled to get into his car, and sped down the road breaking all the speed limits. When he reached his bathroom, he scrubbed his face raw. There was nothing but pink hot skin.
"Don't you have to go home at some point," Blaine asked voice weary. He popped his head out of the, now, slightly full bucket from where it had been the last few minutes. The movie was over; a black screen took its place.
"Na," Sam said. The chair squealed when he stood up off the arm chair. He walked to stand behind the couch, and started to dig his fingers into the stiff shoulder of his friend. "I'm going to stay the night."
"Why would you want to do that? I'm being such a little bitch."
"Well, I worry about you, and today was really bad and I want to make sure you don't take anymore drugs because I know how much you want to be sober for this."
Blaine's lips curled up in a scowl, as he grumbled, "I can't get off the fucking couch, and you think I'd be able to get out of the apartment to my dealer."
"Hey!" Sam said flicking his hands up, "You might have some laying around."
"Oh, bullshit, I know you and Puck rummaged around. I already tried looking for something."
Sam sighed walking into the messy dish littered kitchen. He grabbed a Rice Krispy Square, and headed back into the living area. The square was tossed into Blaine's hands. He ate it sheepishly with little bits like a kid forced to eat their food. It crinkled every time Blaine put it towards his mouth. After he finished it, Blaine stuck his head into the bucket and puked. Throat ripping dry heaves had once again pooled up the entire apartment. Sam sighed.
"Let's get you into bed," He said.
"No, no, get me something. Please? I can't stand this," Blaine pleaded.
"Blaine," Sam tried to ease, "The thing is just in a few days. Come on, man, you got this."
Blaine closed his eye closing out the yellow lights of the living room. If he could, he would go back, and not take the heroin. Even though he wished he could back, he can't seem to live without it. Sweat trickled down his forehead, and he ripped off the hoodie that was enclosing him. Now shirtless in front of Sam, Blaine scratched at his arms needing to feel something. He traced the track marks littered all of his forearm with his jagged nails.
"Did you want to take a bath?" Sam asked.
"Fuck no," Blaine breathed, "last time we tried that I almost drowned."
"I'm sorry, dude. I just didn't realize that you needed to be babysat while you were bathing."
"I don't," Blaine growled, "I just need you to leave me alone."
Sam walked around the couch hoisting Blaine's arm around his shoulder. Dragging Blaine like a rag doll towards his bedroom, Sam sighed out frustration. He knew that Blaine was moody from withdrawal, and that he will apologize once he's completely sober. He knew that. He did. Sam couldn't help, though, the way his fist would clench. All he wants to do is help out his best friend, but it's hard when said best friend doesn't want you around. Well, around when you're preventing him from taking drugs.
"You know, your face is too pretty for it to be frowning all the time. What's wrong, sexy?" A deep voice dripping in a thick southern accent behind Blaine whispers into his ear. Hot breath was blown onto on the left side of his face.
"Wouldn't you like to know," Blaine retorts spinning around on the bar stool his face flushed from the heat of the bar.
"Well, why don't you come with me, and I can show that frown something to smile about," The man had a short stubby face with a full beard. He was wearing tight jeans, and a little pink tied was choking his neck.
"Sure, I'd love to," Blaine smiled expecting the man had wanted sex. He was right, of course, but the man starting tying a rubber band around Blaine's bicep. The man wasn't lying when he said the Blaine's frown would melt into a smile. Once the needle was stabbed into Blaine's skin, he closed his eyes and smiled in delight.
"There you go, sweet pea," The softy exclaimed.
Blaine giggled. He said, "You've got a nice accent."
"Fuck," Blaine sighed, "I'm so, so cold."
Sam had plopped Blaine onto the thin and chewed up blanket on his bed. It was grey just like thick smoke puffing from a fire. "Well, you should have kept your sweater and pants on. I may be a little dumb, but a least I don't strip off my clothes when I'm cold."
"It's what I do for a living, Sam. I'm probably used to it."
"What?" Sam asked flabbergasted.
"I'm a fucking stripper in case you forgot."
"Oh, right."
Digging through Blaine drawers as if it were dirt, Sam pulls out some sweatpants and a shirt. He threw them at the body on the bed curled up in a fetal position. Blaine slipped into clothes, as Sam went out into the hallway to grab an extra blanket from the tiny closet just outside of the bedroom. When Sam came back in, Blaine was cocooned into the grey blanket.
Later in the night Sam had been woken up to the sound of panicked mumbles. He shifted on the made up bed on the couch. There was sound a something crashing too. Sam flung himself into Blaine's room, and his eyes pumped wider than moon. He hated this. The paranoia. Blaine's eyes were erratically flying around in the sockets as if they were following a fly. He stumbled while moving beside his bed.
"Blaine?" Sam said softy.
Blaine looked up panicked. He replied, "You're not with them are you? I need to get away. I need to leave now."
A stumbling body fell into Sam's arms, as he said, "No, Blaine, dude, you need to stay here. Okay?"
"They're going to come get me. Don't you hear them? The sirens?"
"No, Blaine."
"Save me," Blaine rushed; his words were flustered, "they're going to take me away."
"No one's coming. You're fine, okay? You're perfectly fine."
Hands gripping Sam's shirt tighten. Wide hazel eyes stared up at him. They looked so young. Younger than Blaine had looked since the senior year of high school. The eyes were one of a child discovering a tragedy for the first time. Wide. Worried. Aloof. Gone somewhere no one really knows where. Sam felt the air leave his throat. It was gone. He couldn't breathe. Those eyes looked so innocent one a body that was trembling from years of hardship.
"Go back to bed. Okay?"
Sam dug his feet into the flat matted caret watching the innocent eyes close when they fall into the bed.
"Make sure they don't come. Okay Sammy?" A little voice whispered.
"Of course."
With the eyes closed, everything looked not so young anymore. Body parts trembled and were marked. Bruises, scratches and scars. They were everywhere. Sam walked away blinking. He couldn't figure out why his eye started blurring. Tear leaked from the ducts of eyes, and no amount of blinking stopped them. Sam didn't know what to do. He fell asleep on his couch ignoring the ache in his chest, and not acknowledging the way his throat collapsed on itself.