About ten miles outside the city limits of Lima, Ohio, Blaine turned off the radio. The sound of the music and the urge to sing along with every song were affecting his concentration. The visibility was next to nil. He had viewed the weather report before he set off on the road for home; he knew he'd be cutting it close on his drive from the upper peninsula of Michigan, but apparently the storm he was trying to beat was faster than he was. He inched along the snow-covered roadway at hardly more than an idle, his nose practically touching the windshield in front of him in an attempt to see just that little bit farther, but nothing helped.

Blaine's iPhone went off loudly with the sound of his mother's ringtone. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard, noting that he was supposed to be at his parents' house long before then, and he sighed, steeling himself for the scolding he was surely about to get from Bethany Anderson.

"Hey, Mom."

"No, I'm not in Westerville yet. I think I just passed Lima."

"No, I can barely see – I can't hurry."

"Just go ahead and serve dinner, Mom. I'll grab some leftovers when I get in."

"Mom, I'm SORRY – I can't help the weather."

"Yes, Mom, I know I should've left earlier but – "

Blaine was cut off by his phone shutting down. He had remembered to pack his wall charger for the journey, but his car charger had disappeared somewhere, and he wasn't able to power up his phone during the drive as a result.

"Shit," Blaine swore, tossing his phone on the seat. He wasn't quite sure what he was going to do – he was using his phone as a GPS, and he hadn't taken this particular route home before, so not only was he unable to SEE where he was going, he didn't even KNOW where he was going.

As he was thinking over his options, fate went ahead and forced Blaine's hand by sliding his car into the ditch. Blaine tried every way he could think of to correct his course and keep him on what he thought was still the road, but it was of no use. He was down in the ditch in a pile of snow, and there was no way of getting the car back out on his own.

"FUCK!" he screamed in the car. He shut off the engine and opened the door. The car was somewhat tilted so in order to get out of the car, he had to climb up and out. Blaine was grateful for the tall boots and ski parka he was wearing; he was able to assess his situation without getting too cold too quickly.

Blaine glanced at the back of his car and noted that the exhaust pipe was completely blocked by snow. He sighed heavily, knowing there was no way he was going to be able to clear the pipe enough for it to be safe for him to run the engine and keep warm. He leaned up against the car for a moment, his face in his gloved hands, and stopped to think. A cold gust of wind made him hasten his decision-making.

His only choice was to walk. He figured he would freeze to death whether he stayed there or actively tried to seek help, so he decided to retrace his path. He was pretty sure he drove past a mailbox on the side of the road about a half mile back, so after digging around in the car for all the pieces of outerwear he stored in the back seat and grabbing his phone and backpack, he set off in the direction he had come to find the mailbox he had passed.

The first few steps weren't so bad, but the wind was strong, and the snow that was falling was hard and stung the parts of Blaine's face that his scarf didn't cover. Every few feet that Blaine walked, his foot would slip a little, which made the going slow. Finally, after nearly an hour of walking and almost three quarters of a mile covered, he reached the mailbox on the side of the road that he had seen before.

It was no wonder that even in the middle of a snowstorm, he noticed this mailbox. It was covered in Burberry's signature plaid print. Blaine smiled despite the fact that he felt like his face would crack from the cold when he did; the person who owned that box must surely be an interesting soul. And a fashionable one, at that.

After another nearly ten minutes of slip-walking, Blaine began to wonder if he was off the track. How far back IS this person's house? he thought. Just as he began to lose a little hope, he nearly smacked his face on the side of a garage. Blaine was startled, but not exactly surprised; the visibility was so bad that he could barely see past the nose on his own face.

He kept a hand on the building as he began circling it, looking for a door. He gave a small cry of victory when he slogged through some low, dormant shrubberies and nearly tripped over a cement stoop. Rather than look for a doorbell, Blaine raised his hand and rapped on what he hoped was the door. No response. He knocked again, this time removing his glove so the sound would not be muffled by the fabric, but again received no answer. He ran his fingers over the surface of the building, determining that he was indeed knocking on what appeared to be a door, and hoping that he might find a doorbell.

His now freezing cold digits hit paydirt on the third sweep, but just as he was about to press the button, the door swung open in front of him.

"Who are you, and what in the world are you doing out there in this mess?"

A/N: I live in Minnesota, so this whole blizzard/ditch/stranded business is not unfamiliar territory for me. Gotta write what I know, though god knows I've never ended up on anyone's doorstep before :)

This story is completely written except for a bit near the end, so I can post regularly. Let me know what you think of this first little bit!