Summary: This is a story about how, to begin with, two kids grow up. Simple as that.
Warning: this story will go from children to slightly elder, for those who don't like reading Child!Klaine or Future!Klaine and that.
After pretty much just that, I leave you with... this.
Prologue
Blaine Anderson had had a rough life.
His childhood had been especially poor, not in terms of money but in terms of affection. He had lacked hints of closeness in his father's talks and signs of real, effortless love in his mother's embraces. Perhaps the endeavor Walter and Linda did wasn't enough.
Or maybe it just didn't reach to him. It didn't touch him, it didn't make him feel welcome, and when Blaine, just with four and a half years old, had these musings, it made him feel even worse. Why? The answer is simple: he had everything he needed –this time, yes, as regards possessions- and his parents had worked very hard to have him raised properly, so that, as he grew up, he would have his life as easy and valuable as possible. And what was young Blaine doing about it? Complaining. Inside his head, that is; of course, if Blaine would have spoken his puerile mind aloud, he would probably get a reprimand, and he didn't want that from his father.
To be honest, he loved his parents more than anything in the world, but sometimes he was scared of how much he longed for them to love him just a tad more.
"Mommy, can't you read a story to me?" little Blaine asked, holding the quilt close to his chest, fisting his tiny hands around it. He peeked up through his eyelashes at his mother, her black, thick hair pouring down her shoulders and her cherry lips highlighting her dark red and light dress. He looked apprehensively at her and chewed on his lip softly.
"I'm sorry Blaine, but you have to go to sleep now, honey," she insisted, patting his short leg under the comforter and starting to get up from the edge of the bed.
"But I'm scared of the dark!" he begged louder than necessary and fraught, tugging the sheets to a side, as he crawled quickly and clumsily towards his mom, reaching out for her hand, in an unintended, not completely sure way. "What if…" he cut his own sentence with a gasp and stumbled hurriedly, back to the safety of his pillow and quilt, covering up again. "What if something comes out of my closet?" he whispers strongly and lets out all the air in his lungs.
"Nothing will come out of your closet, Blaine," his mother reassured him, taking a seat again, this time next to him. She caressed his dark and big curls, her head tilted to a side slightly and scanning his son's face with her gaze, going from his creased forehead and anxious eyes to his quivering lips.
"But I don't want you to go!" he whined, untangling out of the sheets and surrounding her neck with his fragile arms. "I'm not sleepy, mom," he persists in a trembling, breaking voice nuzzling against her skin, looking for that sense of home somewhere. "I promise, I'm not tired," he continues, not until her mother, after lazily running her hand up and down his back, pulls away and helps him lie down again, evading any visual contact with his son. But his gaze remains on her avoiding one, searching her eyes, desperate and needy.
"Go to sleep, Blaine," she says, this time firmer, still not looking at him.
"But…" he starts to mumble, sound barely above a murmur. "Mom…" his voice cracks and is shaky and breathy again.
"Now!" she almost yells in an imperative way, closing the door after her.
He's left alone in the absolute dark, except for the faint moonlight that filters through his window and strikes, reflecting its light against the spot on the floor next to his bed.
And Blaine can't tell if the sobs he hears are his own, rickety and silent as possible or coming from the hall out of his room.
After that night, Blaine was never read a night tale and barely given a proper, nice goodnight kiss.
As he slowly grew up he had never been talked to or referred to as a child, really. The chats he had with his father were always quite formal and his mother never spoke to him about damsels and princes or heroes that rescued them. No castles, no house trees, no dragons, no daring sword fights, no magic beans, no fairies, no "happily ever after"s in Blaine's life. And when he had dared to ask about all those things, after doubting and querying because of a movie he had seen in the cinema with a kindergarten friend and his mother, his own father had snapped, not only prohibiting him to watch those kinds of movies ever again but banishing from talking to his best friend.
"B-but… Dad, it's not his fault," he stammered, perplex. "He didn't even want to watch that movie, his mother took us to the movies, and-"
"Well, his mother was the one who raised him so I don't want you to talk to him or her," he claimed before turning around and seeking for a book in his broad library.
"Does that mean he can't come over tomorrow?" he asked, lowering his head, burying his chin in his chest and fiddling with his feet and hands, trying to make himself as little as possible. He really didn't want to pester his father any more, but he needed to know.
His father sighed and dropped his head. Uh-oh… He had annoyed him even more.
Blaine cringed and gulped audibly.
"No, Blaine, he cannot, and that's that," he sentenced. Blaine feinted to say he wasn't insisting, that he was just asking but reckoned it was better to leave things that way "Now go to sleep, son," he dismissed him and turned his back on him once more, as Blaine started to shuffle away, before stopping on the threshold.
"Dad?" the tiny boy tried again timidly.
"Yes, Blaine?" irritation noticeable in the way he reluctantly dragged the words.
"Do you want some cake?" he squirmed and held closer and tauter to the frame.
"No, son, thank you," he waved the offer away. His hazel, shiny eyes were brimming with tears by now, threatening to flow and stream down his face. Without another word, he walked briskly to his room, leaving everything behind him; his oblivious father in his study, his less distracted mother in the kitchen, the dirty plates still waiting to be led to the kitchen along with some empty glasses and an almost untouched chocolate cake with nuts on a tray, showing a paraffin "6", soaked in glitter, candlewick lit and a miniature flame faintly flickering.
Altogether, young Blaine Anderson's life was pretty sad and cold.
Just like he felt sometimes, hugging his knees in the middle of the night, whimpering himself to sleep and listening to his parents murmuring and discussing –although, and thankfully, they rarely argued- in a bedroom next to his, while he was near enough to run off to their arms, snuggle between them, laugh and tell them about their day and how the teacher had complimented him on his comprehension in class and kindness towards the other kids. But the worst part was that he didn't feel it would be correct. Because they were his parents and it was not his place to do that.
On the other hand, especially after the birthday party incident, Blaine no longer had any friends. When they found out what Blaine had done to Brandon –his favorite friend-, they had assumed he could push aside any of them overnight and, ironically, stopped talking to him. And so, that day Blaine was left alone, sitting in the sandpit, gaping at first, but pursing his mouth and frowning after.
He grabbed the plastic, yellow shovel next to him and buried it in the sand, proceeding with his task as he bit the inside of his lower lip to stop himself from crying yet again.
From the colorful and cheerful building, she had seen everything.
It was starting to get colder and the gray clouds were slowly gathering in the sky, some quiet thunders echoing in the distance, the smell of a close drizzle impregnating the damp air.
As she thoughtfully considered her student, his fist quivering around the handle and tossing sand to a side with an almost impeccable poker face, she found herself frowning in confusion and her throat closing at the sight.
Elizabeth sighed as the first of many to come fell gently on the glass and, a second later, several heavy droplets followed behind, drumming against the glass; the relaxing sound contrasting with the screaming of children and the cool water blending with Blaine's own tears.
Ok, so, this is like.. I have no idea why I decided to write this, but I wanted to (surprisingly, I am not obsessed with Swing Sets and Sandboxes nor have I read it recently or whatsoever, so it's not like I wanted to write this because of it) and it was going to be a one shot in the beginning, but then I decided to make another chapter where the next thing happens, but I highly doubt it will be like.. a LOOOOONG fic. I would barely call it multi-chapter, really, I'd say three chapters max.
Yes, yes, his parents are also called Walter and Linda in my other fanfic, Walk The Line, but I seriously can't come up with another name for Blaine's father. GO SWING SETS AND SANDBOXES, seriously, makes me cry so goddamn hard, go read it now. Please, it's too beautiful (I am by no means, trying to say this is NEARLY as good or original or ANYTHING as that fic cause that one is just.. magical, just.. I can't).
In case you haven't noticed, I love writing flashbacks. And angst :)
Anyway, hope you like it and PLEASE PLEASE PLEAAAAAAASE, REVIEW, pretty please?