Eighteen Again

Chapter One

It was a set plan. On November 11, Blaine would die. He had the pills, he had the lock on his door. Everything would go swimmingly. Or at least as swimmingly as you can get when you're a teen who plans to kill himself and has that plan fully developed. There was nothing left for him. His father could care less about him, and his mother left when things got too intense for her. She was a coward for that. Blaine stayed, he took the abuse that his mom didn't even see; she up and left him right before things really got bad. The last he'd heard of her was that she got hitched with some accountant in Fresno. Blaine was stuck in Ohio. His mother was well out of the picture. The problem with his father was that he used to be so loving, but then something went wrong, and one beer became two and then three then seven then countless bottles on the floor, some shattered over Blaine's head. Blaine should've seen it coming; he should've begged his mom to take him with her when he had the chance, but no. He had hope in his dad; well, young and naive Blaine, look where that got you now. There wasn't hope. People were assholes.

Blaine had long ago guessed that the something that went wrong was him coming out as gay, but he didn't believe it until he was nursing his wounds: a generous amount of bruises on his ribs and the word "fag" implanted permanently in his brain. So much for trust. There was nothing left for Blaine in this world. No one cared about him; he went to a school filled with homophobes and kids drunk off of social status, a mother that didn't deserve such a title, and the shell of a man who used to be his father. He'd gotten used to it, he supposed, but could someone really get used to abuse?

The Sun was high and bright when Blaine carefully stepped out of the dingy apartment he and his father had. They used to have it all; his father had been an attorney, and his mother was a dentist. But when the drinking had gotten out of hand and his mother had left, the money went down the drain, wasted on booze and cigarettes. Blaine had tried to stop. He'd hide the money, and when his father would ask, he'd swear he'd never touched it, but then his father would unbuckle his belt and slide it out of the loops, and it was in those moments that Blaine knew he was living a losing war. So he stopped trying. It became clear that his father gave no regards to him anymore, and Blaine was causing more trouble than preventing it, so he just stopped. And now, there they were. In a crummy apartment that was more or less falling apart; the electricity cut out at random, and sometimes the piping stopped working. But Blaine was fine. He had grown used to that. He was used to getting used to things. That's all he did. But he was so sick of it, so November 11 became a thing. And now, every day was just one step closer to death, and he couldn't have cared less. He didn't care, he realised when he noticed that the date was November ninth.

He walked briskly to the edge of the parking lot before turning around, eyes raking over the building he resided. A frown took over his face, and he pivoted quickly, beginning to make his way out of the lot. He broke into a sprint when he had gained some distance between him and the apartment. The route he was taking was familiar. He was heading to a small cafe that people usually ignored for the coffee shop in the middle of the city. He never bought anything from the place, but the people didn't bother him, so he spent most of his time there.

Despite the Sun being out, there was a chill in the air that nipped at Blaine's nose. When he entered the cafe, he was thankful for the fact that the inside was warm. He immediately took his place at a chair in the corner of the room. The barista had looked up when he walked in, but upon seeing who it was, they promptly looked down and continued cleaning the counter. Blaine gazed out the window, eyes locked on a tree. Its leaves had abandoned it, some of them still twirling down to the ground in a secret waltz that only nature knew. He rested his chin on his palm carefully, gaze still settled on the tree. It stood there, and Blaine wondered how old it was. He was still stuck in his pondering when the feeling of someone tapping his shoulder yanked him back into reality. He tore his stare away from the tree and found himself looking at a boy dressed to the nines, hair coiffed, and looking generally uncomfortable. A smile made its way onto the boy's face, though, when he saw Blaine looking at him. "Hi," he said, voice high, "do you mind if I sit with you?" He motioned to the empty chair next to Blaine. "My name is Kurt by the way."

Blaine blinked at him before nodding and motioning to the chair. "Blaine."

Kurt froze, halfway in the chair. "What was that?"

"My name," Blaine explained. "My name is Blaine."

There was a pause before Kurt laughed and set his cup down on the table in front of them. "Oh, like Pretty in Pink."

Blaine nodded again and watched as Kurt adjusted himself in the chair. He continued to watch for a second more before turning to look back out the window.

"What's got your attention out there?" Kurt's voice interrupted his tree-watching.

Blaine shrugged.

"You seem pretty intrigued by that tree," Kurt observed, and Blaine turned to see Kurt looking out the window too, glasz eyes locked on the tree. "Do you usually come here to stare at trees?"

Blaine knew it was a joke, but he answered anyways: "Yes." He faced Kurt fully. "How old is it? Do trees know when they're going to die?"

Kurt's gaze shifted to land on Blaine. "You brought out the big questions quick."

They stared at each other before Blaine spoke. "That sort of happens when you have two days left to live."

"Oh my God," Kurt said, voice quiet, hands flying up to cover his mouth, "are you sick?" He froze when he realised what he said. "Oh my God," he repeated. "I'm so sorry."

Blaine shook his head. "It's fine. And no. Nothing ends Blaine but the man himself."

If anything, that made Kurt tense up more. "So you're going to…?" His voice had grown smaller as the question was being asked. "But why?"

Blaine laughed, a cruel, unforgiving bark. "When you've got a deadbeat dad and no mom, the world doesn't seem so great. And no one pays attention to the resident gay at a school filled with homophobic jerks."

Kurt nodded. "I can sympathize, but, Blaine, do you really think no one cares?"

"I feel pretty safe when I say yes," Blaine responded. "I've got it all planned out and everything. It'll be quick, and no one will know that I'm gone. It's not like I show up at school half of the time." He leaned back in his chair and stared at Kurt, amber eyes cold.

"Eighteen days," Kurt breathed when he realized Blaine was done speaking.

Blaine raised a brow.

"Give me eighteen days," Kurt repeated. "Give me eighteen days to make you realize that life can be okay. And is it safe to assume you go to McKinley?" Blaine nodded. "Well then, Blaine, I feel very safe when I say you're not the only out gay there. Maybe you should show up for a change. I'll even meet you at your locker or something. I don't care. Just give me eighteen days."

Blaine stared at him apprehensively. "Why?"

"Trust me," Kurt pushed on, determined. "It's just eighteen days, but I promise you, Blaine, I promise you that I'll show you life's worth it. Please."

Blaine sighed. Why not give the teen his fun? "Fine," he agreed. "I'll give you eighteen days. But if nothing changes, if you don't lead me to some big epiphany, I'm going through with my original plan. There'll have just been a small delay."

Kurt's eyes were wide, and Blaine wanted to laugh at the way he bounced up and down in the chair. "Eighteen days, Blaine. That's all I need."

A genuine smile settled on Blaine's face as Kurt bit his bottom lip and tapped his feet quickly on the ground.

"Eighteen days."

DISCLAIMER: Any characters that seem to be associated with the television series Glee belong to the show's producers, directors and the actors portraying the characters. (Mainly Kurt Hummel and Blaine Anderson, portrayed by Chris Colfer and Darren Criss.)

I don't know if this'll be a long story or not. I sort of know where I want this to go. There's enough of an idea to the point that I can get to the ending, but the middle is still soft. And if I don't stop now that'll turn into a baking analogy, so I'm most definitely going to stop. Anyways, clearly, this contains some triggers. (Mainly suicide/drug abuse.) If you're not comfortable with that, you probably shouldn't read this. I can't guarantee how deeply this will go into the topic of suicide, but there is still a chance it can get pretty intense. If you're nervous but think you can handle that, please proceed with caution. I don't want any attacks of any kind to occur because of my story, so please be careful, and if things do get hard, take a break, or just stop reading the story altogether.

If you're okay with any mentions or possible written depictions of suicide, I hope you enjoy this story. Happy holidays! xx

Emma Wants a Warbler