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Seblaine rp with myself bc I'm lonelyyyyyyyy

[alliwannadoiscomerunning]

It’s Just a Thing (Child!Klaine Bereavement Sequel)

Hey! It’s @alliwannadoiscomerunning here. I decided to continue my @blangstpromptoftheday #1047 fill, which is “Blaine meets Kurt for the first time when he’s seven and Kurt is eight and they’re both at a support group for children suffering a bereavement”. Read Part 1 here. 

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     Blaine sits, slightly red-eyed, but calm, in the backseat on the way back from Lima. Pam doesn't ask him anything as she pulls into a different parking lot, different, but all the same when referring to the casual strip mall in Ohio. His dark hair carefully curls in the summer wind as Pam takes his hand and leads him out of the GMC Denali, which involved gripping both of his shoulders to lift him out of the giant SUV.  

     Pam can't tell herself why she and Josh had bought the car in the first place. They had two children, and a medium sized dog named Leo, which her eldest had named at age ten. After seven years, the dog still came everywhere with them, but was conspicuously absent today. Pam seldom wondered if Leo was depressed, too. Perhaps the extra large SUV came when Josh and her decided to raise their first child in the suburbs, where the mid-eighties were at its height and the thought of a big brick house in the Midwestern suburbs was actually appealing. Pam was sick of it. She longed for travel.

     She stared at her youngest son out of the corner of her eyes. Her remaining son. He's small and handsome, his retrossè profile framing something much more boring than his appearance. Josh and Pam had been overjoyed when their mistake turned into such a pretty baby.  

     But at the same time, Pam looked at him with pangs of pain that crippled her aging heart. Maybe, if this son hadn't been born, they'd still have the other one. Part of her, the darker side, sings at the idea. When Cooper had been a child, he would dance in front of his mother for hours and hours, pulling the most wonderful facial expressions, and making Pam believe that her son was going to go somewhere. Make it big in Hollywood, or Broadway. He was always bouncing around, much less patient than Blaine, who as a kid would sit in silence with his toys on the floor (Cooper’s?), and read books. The idea that ghosted the forefront of Pam’s mind was almost too good to be true.

     What was she saying?

     Pam settled down as a slightly cheered up Blaine licked his ice cream cone slowly, yet he paid much attention, as if it would disappear if he didn't savor the moment while it lasted. Maybe, Pam thought, that she should start savoring the memories, too.

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      Burt gripped the steering wheel carefully, listening to his son gush on and on in the backseat of the old Saab. The muffler would probably need to be replaced, soon, he realized, because he could barely hear Kurt’s lilted voice.

     Kurt asks in the tense Mellencamp-driven atmosphere, “Why’s bologna called bologna, Daddy? Shouldn’t it be bologna- that’s how it’s spelt.”

     This is good. A normal conversation.

     “I don’t know, son,” said Burt- why out of all normal conversations, his son had to pick the most obscure one there is..- “I guess it’s the Americanized-version of how the Italians say it.”

     “And how do the Italians say it?”

     The questions never end, and sometimes, Burt wonders if he has to answer them all.

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     The next Tuesday, at 4:00, both families arrived in the strip mall parking lot at relatively similar times. That day, however, it was just Pam bringing her son around to Ms. Pillsbury’s Boys’ Bereavement Group. After ice cream the previous week, Blaine was more interested in what would happen after the meeting than during or before.

     And as for Kurt, he was just trying not to think all that hard about it. His father wanted him to come, and so there he was.

    The boys found each others’ eyes from across the lobby. Kurt and Blaine never saw each other at school, and Kurt wondered why that was.

     “You said you go to my school,” accused Kurt as he came closer to the other boy, whose mother bade him no attention, “I didn’t see you anywhere.”

     This time, Blaine wasn’t in uniform, which last week, consisted of a dark, smart blue blazer with red piping, a red and blue tie, and a white button undershirt. There was a stitched ‘D’ on the front pocket in elaborate, neat font, and gray trousers with brown loafers. Kurt wore this that day, but Blaine himself was dressed neatly in a sweater vest and dark pants, with no socks, but shoes similar to the Dalton Primary uniform.

     “I haven’t started yet,” said Blaine, “Mommy says I’m not starting until next week.” He looked around aimlessly for Pam, who was off chatting with the weird blonde secretary, Sue.

     “Oh,” Kurt relented, “You just wanted to wear the clothes.”

     Blaine smiled, “Guilty as charged.”

     The two boys’ conversation slacked off into silence until Kurt blurted, “You know a lot of big words.”

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     In group about fifteen minutes later, Blaine started off by saying, “One of my favourite memories of Cooper was when he bought a dictionary once to just throw it at the wall. He just threw it. At the wall.” There were some giggles from the boys, particularly Kurt, who willingly sat next to him as soon as they walked in.

     “Did he dislike reading, Blaine?” Miss Pillsbury’s dynamic today was easy and nonjudgmental. Blaine knew her tone was gentle.

     “Uh huh. He never read to me, because he wanted me to learn by myself. I like that he did, because…because, now I know how to read.”

     “My daddy taught me how to read,” Nick piped up, “Can we read a book instead of drawing today, Miss Pillsbury?”

     “Yeah, I don’t like drawing!” complained seven year old Jeff. “It makes me feel like a girl.”

     Kurt gave a huff of annoyance, “Well, maybe if you were better at it, you’d like it more!”

     Once again, the group began to feel like it was falling apart. Miss Pillsbury found this incredibly frustrating, and gripped her clipboard with a tighter hold than she felt like she had on this group of little boys. Little boys!

     “OK,” said Miss Pillsbury, avoiding what very well could have been World War III, “OK. Let’s talk about reading some more. I don’t think we’ll have time for an activity today, so Jeff doesn’t have to worry.”

     What was meant to be a joke turned into anxiety when Jeff high-fived Nick. Did they really not like her activities?

     “Um,” Emma fumbled, “Do you have anything to add, Sebastian?”

     When perhaps the most distraught boy in the room lifted his head, Emma knew that she was in hot water. Sebastian was notoriously mentioned in Emma’s notes for his temper and his story, which was a tragic one. Not that every other boy had a right to be there, but Emma just knew that she may have gone one step too far. Asking Sebastian to speak up in group was probably a mistake.

     Nick, Jeff, and Blaine exchanged a few glances with each other. Kurt was confused, because it was only his third meeting, and well, who was this Sebastian kid, anyway? He couldn’t have been more than eight, but no younger than Blaine or Nick or Jeff. His green eyes were dull, and because they were so (well, not attentive) they weren’t anything special. His hair was well-taken care of, so there was that. Kurt found nice dark brown pigments between Sebastian’s chocolate and sandy blonde roots. Not too blonde, though.

     “I’m Barry,” Sebastian finally spoke, “Not Sebastian. Sebastian. Is. Dead. Dead. It was Sebastian that died. I’m Barry.” -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

     Christopher Smythe was a worn out man.

     What stared at him now, but the face of defeat? What gazed down on him, except God, who was probably too drunk, like him, to care at all that he made another mistake. That mistake, Christopher decided, was too horrid to be the truth, and started theorizing that God took away one of his twins because only one of them was supposed to be born. And then, he supposed God screwed up once more, because he left the more insolent, tantrum-throwing, and behavioral child on Earth, and took away the kinder one.

     Barry had been perfect. Little Bartholomew and Sebastian (marrying one of the richest women in Paris had its drawbacks, including naming his children ridiculous names that belonged in a Charlie Chaplin film) had been born identical, and came in a package deal. You take what you give, including the fact that Barry was the sweetest, kindest child Christopher ever had the pleasure of meeting. And the fact that his more reserved brother, Sebastian, quickly acted out in response to his co-twin’s death only made things more complicated for him.

     Christopher Smythe was tired. He was tired of the judgmental looks, tired of the glares he received from liberals who knew his story. Like there weren’t hundreds of them every day- hundreds who shouldn’t be dead because of the very thing that protected him from whatever’s out there. Barry shouldn’t be dead, and Christopher blamed God. Sure, he felt the scorn of a hundred children, a hundred parents, but you take what you give.

     Christopher stood inside Dalton Primary School, the principal standing in front of him. He didn’t know if Mr. Schuester knew who he was, yet, or if he cared. If he would judge his son for what happened to their family.

     Mr. Schuester waited for Christopher to talk again, like he had been for awhile. But Christopher found his mouth dry. He cannot, because Sebastian, his son, is speaking.

     “I’m not Sebastian.”

     Mr. Schuester smiled; he must think this is a joke. A game. A child hiding behind the sofa, holding up a puppet.

    “You’re Sebastian Smythe! We’ve seen your photos! You are going to love this school, we teach—”

    “I’m NOT Sebastian, I’m Barry.”

     “Uh—”

     “Bastian’ is dead. I’m Barry.”

     “Bastian?…?” The man trails off, and looks to Christopher, understandably confused. Christopher’s son then repeated himself. Loudly. “Barry. I am Barry. Barry!”

     The hallway of the school is silent apart from Sebastian, shouting these lunatic words. William Schuester’s smile has faded very quickly. He glanced at Christopher, who was the picture of a haggard father, with a panicked frown. There were lots of happy children’s drawings drawn over poetry printed on paper tacked to the wall. The school principal tried just one more time.

     “Ah...um...Sebas—”

     Christopher’s son snapped at Will Schuester as if she were stupid. “Barry! You have to call me Barry! Barry! Barry! Barry! Barry! Barry! Barry! Barry! BARRY!”

     The man stood his ground, but Sebastian grew quite out of control. He was giving them a full-on toddler’s supermarket tantrum- except that they were in a school, and he is seven, and he is claiming that he is his dead brother.

     “Dead, ‘Bastian’s dead. I’M BARRY! I am Barry! He is here! Barry!”

     What do I do? Christopher thought, and he tried to make normal conversation, absurdly, “Um, it’s just a thing, a thing – I’ll be back to pick him up at-”

     But Christopher’s efforts are lost as Sebastian screamed again, “BARRY, BARRY, BARRY, BARRY, BARRY, BARRY, Sebastian is DEAD and I HATE him I’m Barry!”

     “Please,” Christopher said. To Sebastian. Abandoning his pretence. “Please, son, please?”

     “SEBASTIAN IS DEAD. Sebastian is dead, they killed him, they killed him. I am BAR-THOOOOO-LOOOOO-MEEEWWWW!”

     And then as quickly as it started, it blew itself out. Sebastian shook his head, stomped over to the far wall, and sat down in a little chair, under a photo of school kids working in a garden, with a cheery message written in felt-tip pen. He who plants a tree plants hope.

     Sebastian sniffed, then said, very quietly, “Please call me Barry. Why can’t you call me Barry, daddy, that’s who I am? Please?” His teary green eyes lifted. “I’m not going to school, ‘less you call me Barry, please. Daddy?’

     Christopher felt paralyzed. His pleading sounded painfully sincere. He truly felt like he had no choice. The silence prolonged into agony. Because now, I’ve got to explain everything to this Schuester guy at the worst possible moment; and to do that I need Sebastian out of here. I need him in this school, he thought.

     “OK, OK. Mmm-” Christopher said, unable to think properly. “Mr. Schuester. This is Barry. Barry Smythe.” Christopher became frightened, and started to mumble. “I’m actually enrolling Bartholomew Christopher Smythe.”

     There was a long pause. William Schuester looked at Christopher, with intense confusion.

     “Pardon me? Barry? But …” The teacher became a bright red, flustered. Then, he reached to a desk, behind a open, sliding window, and took out a sheet of paper. His next words were more of a whisper. “But it says here, quite clearly, that you are enrolling Sebastian Smythe? That was on the application. Sebastian. Definitely. Sebastian Smythe?”

     Christopher breathed in deeply. He started to speak, but Sebastian got there first, as if he overheard.

     “I’m Barry,” said Sebastian. “Sebastian is dead, then he was alive, but then he is dead again. I am Barry.”

     William Schuester, once more, says nothing. Christopher started to feel too dizzy to respond, teetering on the edge of dark absurdity. But with an effort, he spoke, “Can we let Bartholomew join his new class and I can explain?”

     There was another desperate silence, Christopher’s face pleading for the other man to understand. Then, he heard children singing a song down a corridor, raucous and happy.

     “Blackbird singing in the dead of night, take these broken wings and learn to FLY-”

     The incongruity made Sebastian’s father nauseous.

     William Schuester shook his head, then edging closer to Christopher as he said, “Yes ... That seems sensible.”

     The school principal turned to a good-looking young woman, in a pencil skirt, pressing through the glass doors from the cold outside. “Ms. Corcoran, Shelby, please–do you mind– can you take, ahh, Barry Smythe to his new class, Year Two, end of the corridor. Madelyn Stewart.”

     “FLY, blackbird, FLY- ”

     Shelby nodded an amiable Yes and squatted down, next to Sebastian, like an overkeen waitress taking an order, “Hey, Barry. D’you want to come with me?”

     “Into the light of the dark black night…blackbird singing in the dead of night…”

     “I’m Barry.’ Sebastian was fiercely folding his arms. Scowling. Bottom lip jutting. As stubborn a face as he can manage, “You must call me Barry.”

     “Sure. Of course. Barry! You’ll like it, they’re doing music this morning.”

     “FLY, blackbird, FLY…”

     At last, it worked. Slowly, he unfolded his arms and he takes her hand- and he followed Shelby toward another glass door. He looks so small, and the door looks so huge and daunting, devouring…Christopher couldn’t help but wish his wife wasn’t in Paris right now, coping by herself. The twins had been in his custody when Barry had died.

     For one moment Sebastian paused, and turned to give Christopher a sad, frightened smile- and then Shelby escorted him into the corridor- he became swallowed up by the school. Christopher must leave him to his lonely fate; so he turned to William Schuester.

     “I have to explain.”

     Schuester nodded, sombrely. “Yes please. In my office. We can be alone there.”

     Fifty minutes later, and Christopher has given William Schuester the basic, yet appalling details of their story. The accident, the death, the confusion of identity, all over fourteen months. He looked suitably and honestly horrified, and also sympathetic, but Christopher could also detect a hint of sly delight in his eyes, as he listened to the narrative. Christopher was certainly livening up another dull school day. This is something he can tell his wife and his work friends today- you won’t believe who came in today, a father whose son doesn’t know his own identity…

     “That’s a remarkable story,” said Schuester. “I’m so so sorry.”

     He took his glasses off and puts them on again. “It is amazing that there is, ah, no way...of really…”

     “Knowing? Proving?”

     “Well, yes.”

     “All I know is that – I mean, I think – If he wants to be Barry for now maybe we have to go with it. For now. Do you mind?”

     “Well no, of course. If that’s what you prefer. And that’s fine in terms of enrollment. They are…”

     Schuester searched for the words. “Well, they were the same age, so – yes – I’ll just have Shelby update the records, but don’t worry about that.”

     Christopher got up to leave, eventually, quite desperate to escape.

     “So sorry, Mr. Smythe. But I’m sure everything will be all right now, Sebastian – I mean – your son. Barry. He will love it here. Really.”

     Christopher simply fled.

[alliwannadoiscomerunning]

Dear Blaine Anderson (Chapter 1)

DISCLAIMER: This is a Glee fanfiction that is based upon the musical Dear Evan Hansen. Call it a mashup if you will. Enjoy.

22nd August, 2011

Dear Blaine Anderson,      “This is going to be a good day, and here’s why.” I know it seems presumptuous to be writing a letter to myself. What kind of drug is Miss Pillsbury on? I’ll probably be the same old person by the end of this assignment thing she has me doing.       She gave me the assignment yesterday, but I couldn’t bring myself to write anything before now. I’m not good with words…this is really hard.       At home, I have a picture somewhere within my desktop that’s bleeding. The petals are white, and red liquid oozes from its heart, thick and glistening warm. Only, if you look very close, you can see the droplets are coming from above, where my wrist- camouflaged by a cluster of leaves- has been pricked by thorns as I reached inside to catch a monarch.       I used to wonder why I risked getting sliced up just to have a picture of me touching a butterfly. But now, I suppose it makes sense: I wanted those wings so I could fly away, because the pain of trying to reach for them was more tolerable than the pain of staying grounded, wherever I was…

      Blaine stopped typing (with one hand, his other arm was in a cast) suddenly, forcing back an eye roll. Was this really what Miss Pillsbury wanted from him? To get really deep while talking about himself, just to have a letter of hope to get him through his senior year?

     Blaine didn’t need a letter of hope. He wrote the passage about the butterfly, aiming for something that spoke for him, but all it did was just prove how sad he really was inside. But Miss Pillsbury was helping him, truly helping him, and all he wanted to do was sleep. Push all of this away.

     Blaine hit the delete key multiple times, getting rid of the part about Miss Pillsbury giving him the assignment. When he gave the letter to her for her to read, he wanted her to think that he did this for him, not for her.

      Or at least have a picture of me flying away. Prove I’m okay, you know? I’m not. I’m not okay. Maybe post it to Facebook, but I don’t have a Facebook. Plus, to get there, I would have to show I bled on the thorns at some point. I’m not at all into that, either. It wouldn’t make sense at all for people to see…

     Blaine read it all over again, and deleted the quotation marks around “this is going to be a good day, and here’s why”.

      …that I’m not…

      Blaine shut down his desktop completely. It was no use; he was never going to get this done by tomorrow. He would be here all night. With one last glance at the calendar above his desk, he walked over to his bed, shut the light off, and fell asleep with the sound of the summer rain battering on the thin roof. It would have to wait.

                                                            +++                                                            

      In the morning, it was still raining. They were saying in the newspaper that this was the wettest summer that they’d had in Lima for many years. That morning, Blaine found it difficult to get up. Pamela, his mother, served him breakfast as he came bleary eyed down the stairs, his backpack hung around one shoulder. It held his laptop, most of the salvageable school supplies from last year, and only a few new pockets of lined notebook paper. He ate breakfast quietly, without looking much at his mother, who was staring right at the top of his bent down, hair-gel covered head.

     “Someone’s tired this morning,” commented Pam, “Are you ready for your first last day of high school?”           Blaine’s stomach flipped upon hearing the over-used joke. His relatives could comment about his height all they wanted- even though he was a senior this year- and repeat the most-used saying on earth, but it would never calm his nerves.

     “You okay?” Pam lightly stroked his shoulder, like the way a mother does, but all Blaine felt was nervous. “Have you been writing those letters to yourself?”

     “I started one,” said Blaine, as if that would prove anything at all- hey, look, mom, I’m not that basket-case son that can’t do anything for himself- he did the assignment.

     “Miss Pillsbury said that those letters are important in helping to build your confidence,” Pam said in response, trudging on ahead with the minuscule conversation, which neither mother or son could think of anything to continue it with. “She said it would help.”

     “I guess.”

     There was an awkward silence that hung in the air. “Well, I just want you to know that I’m here. In fact, can we try a more optimistic outlook? Maybe that’ll help. After all, maybe this year you’ll choose to not completely give up before you’ve even tried. Maybe you’ll make some friends!”

     “I doubt it.”

    “Where’s this attitude coming from?” Pam asked, even though she already knew the answer. It came from the fact that her son had severe social anxiety, and relied on medication to get through the day without banging his head into a wall, screaming, and committing some kind of homicide for all the world to see.

     Maybe that was exaggerating.

    But in truth, Blaine was not functioning well, and they both knew it. Pam tried her best to think of ways to fix it (fix him?) but so far, each suggestion was worst that the last.

     “Hey, I know! You can go around and try and get the other kids to sign your cast! How about that?” Pam’s most recent idea struck a chord of fear in Blaine, but who was he to be his own prohibitor of recovery?

     “Oh, good,” he said, nervous laughter breaking through. “Why would anyone want to do that? I’m not five anymore.”

     “I know that,” nodded Pam, not seeing that this was a pretty bad idea, “But just try. Maybe go ask that Sam Evans kid, the son of Rose, my friend from the night school? This is going to be so great. I’m proud of you already.”

     Blaine smiled begrudgingly, unable to deny the source of his mother’s happiness- his health. He took another look at the clock, which now read 7:43 AM. “I should go,” he said apologetically, “See you later.”

     He left.

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Sebastian      Everyone is going to die.            You could wake up, get out of bed, trip over a pair of sneakers on the way to the bathroom, fall down the stairs, and break your neck. You could get some crazy disease that can’t be cured. You could cross the street and get hit by a car. You could have a brain aneurysm, or maybe choke on a piece of hot dog like Finn Hudson did during lunch Freshman year. While most of us were standing there with our mouths open, thinking, do something! Quinn Fabray crashed through the tables and chairs, grabbed Finn around the middle, and jammed her small fists up under Finn’s rib cage until the small piece of meat shot out of Finn’s mouth. Finn lived, but another minute and he could have been brain dead, which is pretty much like being dead, or he could have been dead-dead.

     The point is, you die. Most of the time, you don’t see it coming. Sebastian death was just a really, really bad exception.

      For example, Sebastian used to cover his head with a black hoodie, thinking it’d help him be invisible. But a seventeen-year-old male walking the streets alone in a hoodie automatically invites suspicion. He swore it’s why he was once questioned by an officer, one time. He gave the guy some story about how he was on his way home, and he let Sebastian off with a warning. Sometimes, Sebastian even wore a baseball cap. The front hung over his face like a duck’s bill, casting a shadow that he tries to hide in.

     Tonight, however, had been less eventful than the kinds of things he usually got himself into. He looked up at his house from the windshield, he was sitting in his car- it was dark, except for the light in the kitchen, the one left on to scare away the robbers.

     Tap, tap, tap. Sebastian jumped. Kurt’s face peered through his car window. His brown hair is swept to the side, mussed in the way that he must have just gotten out of bed. It was the middle of the night.

     “What the hell?” Sebastian opened the door.

     “Nice to see you, too, Mr. High and Grumpy.”

     Kurt pulled his cousin out of the car. Sebastian, having no choice but to follow, headed after him, his energy waning. He had just wanted to sneak in without the parentals catching him and chewing him out. In a couple of strides, Sebastian was even with Kurt.

     “Where’ve you been?” Kurt said, “You’re lucky I’m here to save you. Dad’s up and about.”

     “At four A.M.?” Sebastian slurred, “What’re you doing up?”

     Kurt climbed into the window on his first floor bedroom decidedly, “Early morning facial routine. I figured you’d be out getting drunk. School starts in three hours, you know.”

     “Yeah, whatever,” said Sebastian as he climbed inside, too. That was one of the last conversations that they had.

      Mornings in the Hummel household were far different from the two Andersons. Kurt, for one, was awake and brightly chewing his eggs for breakfast, a tablet sitting beside his plate with the latest fashion articles from Vogue.com. Someday, Kurt hoped to write for them.

     Kurt’s father, Burt, was at the table, as well. He was Sebastian’s uncle. For moments within their childhood had Kurt questioning if Burt really cared at all about Sebastian, even though he acted like it. Sebastian just made things incredibly difficult for them all.

     “It’s your senior year, Sebastian, you are not missing the first day!” said Carole Hummel as she chased the tall boy into the kitchen, swatting him with a dish towel- only Carole Hummel would do dishes on a Wednesday morning.

     “I already said I’d go tomorrow,” Sebastian said, purposefully obnoxious, “Jesus, quit trying to be my damn mom all the time!”

     Kurt looked up from his tablet to see Burt’s glancing in his direction.

     “He’s not listening, look at him! He’s probably high.” Burt said, seriously unimpressed, while Kurt leaned forward slightly to say, “Oh, definitely.”

     “I don’t want you going to school high, Sebastian!” Carole said sternly, throwing her hands in the air. She wanted it to be the last time.

     “Perfect,” Sebastian purred, “So I won’t go. Thanks, mom.” He emphasized ‘mom’, even though he fully believed Carole was not his mother. It struck a nerve.

     He fell silent. Kurt simply raised his eyebrows, knowing that this was what you got with a household added Sebastian.

      “Interstate’s pretty jammed,” Burt said casually, his hands on the wheel of the car. Kurt barely looked up from his phone to tell that he was just making small talk.

     Sebastian sat crossly in the front seat next to Burt. If he had his way, he would be in the back seat of a friend’s car, toasting to freedom and taking shots like there was no tomorrow. If he had his way, he wouldn’t be here at all...

[alliwannadoiscomerunning]

Suddenly My Life Doesn’t Seem Such a Waste (Blangst Prompt #1047 Fill)

Prompt #1047 fill (from @Blangstpromptoftheday on Tumblr)

Blaine meets Kurt for the first time when he’s seven and Kurt is eight and they’re both at a support group for children suffering a bereavement.

Suddenly My Life Doesn’t Seem Such a Waste

      Blaine was among many children that didn’t really get the feeling of pain. The way it would completely cripple some people, and how it would just not matter to others; it was all foreign territory.

     Take his mother, for example. Some days, she would seem approachable, while others, she would stare into his eyes and ask him to play with his army men in his room, locked away, instead of on the living room floor. His dad would take her arm, say “It’s quite alright, darling,” and lead her away. That way, no one was sitting in the living room, anymore. It was just a waste of space.

     Blaine wondered sometimes if he was like the living room, too. Empty inside. He felt dirty. A seven year old should have a bath every other day, he knew, but he never seemed to be reminded of that, anymore. The first six or so weeks had been confusing, where he remembered his parents focused more on sorting things than making sure he was clean.

     Blaine’s dad spoke. “What are you doing, Pam?”

     Pam held a flashlight in one hand, so it shined directly on the cardboard box in front of her, which was crudely knifed open.

     “What does it looks like?”

     “OK.”

     Blaine had stood on the stairs to the attic, which was nearest to the bathroom on the third floor of their house. He was carrying a towel and his favorite rubber ducky, frowning at his parents, who were upstairs having an argument.

     His dad’s silhouette, with the downstairs light behind him, had an uncomfortable shape, as if he is tensed, or angry. Menacing. Why? His mother talks in a hurry.

     “I’m sorting all this stuff. Josh, you know we have to do something, don’t we? About his- About-” Blaine heard his mother swallow, and woefully wished for her not to cry. Not again.

     “We have to sort Cooper’s old toys and clothes. I know you don’t want to, but we have to decide. His old stuff is just filling us up, do we do something else?”

     “Get rid of it?”

     “Yes ... Maybe.”

     Blaine frowned again, his even year old body beginning to feel something other than confusion. He was catching on.

     “OK. OK. Ah, I don’t know.”

     Silence. And the ceaseless rain on the roof. Blaine watched the droplets roll down on the window in the hall.

     “Josh?”

     “Look, I’ve got to go.’ He is backing away, and heading for the stairs. ‘Let’s talk about it later, I will call you from San Diego.”      “Josh!”

     “Booked on the next flight, but I’ll miss that one too, if I’m not careful. Probably have to overnight in Denver, now.” His voice is getting closer as he clambers down the stairs, well, more like a ladder. He is leaving- and his exit feels guilty.

     “Wait!” Blaine’s mother cries.

     He turns, checking his wristwatch as he does.

     “Yeah?”

     “Did you…Josh. Did you open the box of Cooper’s old toys?”      He paused.

     Blaine remembered the time that his dad had come downstairs with a set of action figures that seemed new to him. He had said “here you go, squirt” and played with the old models of Thor and Hulk with him. It was, perhaps, the only time.      “Sure,” his dad replied.

     “Why, Josh? Why on earth would you do that?”

     “Because Blaine was bored with his toys.”

     “So, Josh, you went into the loft and got one out? One of Cooper’s old toys? Just like that?”

     “Yes. So? Hm?? What’s the problem, Pam? Did I cross into enemy territory?”

     Blaine got nervous as his father went on- those toys were Cooper’s? Blaine felt sick. “Blaine was bored and unhappy. Saying he missed Cooper. You were out, Pam. Coffee with Rose. Right? So I thought, why not get him some of Cooper’s old toys. Mm? That will console him. And deal with his boredom. So that’s what I did. OK? Is that OK?”

     His sarcasm is heavy. And bitter.

     “But-”

     “What would you have done? Said no? Told him to shut up and play with his own toys? Told him to forget that his brother existed?’

     And as Josh descended the stairs, he found Blaine, now his only son, clutching the towel and rubber duck with fervor. Blaine was crying, for the first time.

     And that was how Blaine’s parents decided to take him here- to Emma Pillsbury’s office in Lima, Ohio. Josh had spent hours on the phone with many counselors, who all had schedules filled to the brim in Westerville. Apparently, the whole of America needed grief counseling. The Andersons had only one option then- driving an hour to Lima every Tuesday at 4:30 PM.

     They had many arguments about it, about how Blaine didn’t need counseling- he was just about the happiest seven year old in all of Ohio, who just happened to make the dark cloud hanging over him transparent at all times.

     But in the end, they compromised. Blaine didn’t have many friends, and so he was made to attend Ms. Pillsbury’s Boys’ Bereavement Group. And the drive from Westerville to Lima was a bonus; no one would see that Pam was appointed to spend time with Kathy individually. Blaine didn’t understand why that was such a big deal. He just needed to understand where Cooper went, and why he wasn’t ever coming back. Why he didn’t want to live anymore.

     He told the group just about that. The parents weren’t allowed in the room, and so Blaine assumed automatically that he could say what he was really feeling.

     “I miss my brother,” said Blaine in one of the sessions, quietly, “Even when he was mean, sometimes, he still made me feel important.”

     His parents didn’t. They just dragged him along. Coop had been seventeen, about to go into his last year at high school. In the end, Blaine watched his brother get more and more mean, and would always tear him down, but Blaine found that insults were more satisfying than no attention at all.

     A few of the other boys didn’t share his same ideals.

     “My nana was the bestest person in the world,” An eight year old named Jeff exclaimed, “She wasn’t ever mean to me.”

     “But don’t you think that that shouldn’t matter?” said Blaine, “We should remember everyone as how they were, not how you wanted them to be.”

     “An interesting thought, Blaine,” Ms. Pillsbury interrupted, “Would you like to elaborate?”

    Blaine didn’t know what ‘elaborate’ meant, but she was giving him a motion to speak. He carefully nodded.

     “Well, Coop wasn’t always nice. He never let me come into his room,” Blaine explained, “When he would throw parties in mine, sometimes. Mommy and daddy never did anything about it.”

     “Did that make you feel frustrated?”

     “Yes,” Blaine said, “But it doesn’t mean that I’m allowed to be. Coop’s gone, now.”

     “Oh, Blaine, you are certainly allowed to be frustrated.” Ms. Pillsbury frowned, “What put that into your head?”

     “I miss my dad,” Seven year old Nick said, “And he was good to me. I don’t get why you’re saying all these things.”

     Blaine narrowed his eyes at the newer addition, who had joined the group not but two weeks ago. Ms. Pillsbury was grappling for control, as the boys began to whisper and talk within themselves.

     “I think we need some understanding on how to-” Ms. Bowers stopped as she saw Blaine leave the room, the vanilla door slamming behind him.

     More whisperings. 

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

      It could be any strip mall in Lima. Low-rise and compact, with a smallish storefronts with dully painted windows and doors, and inside, lots of parents looking sleepy, careworn and guiltily relieved as they drop off the little ones. It’s just the setting that marks it out: depression. And then, of course, there is the screwed-in sign on the fifth unit. All Visitors Must Report To Reception.

     Kurt held his father’s hand, tightly, as they walked from their car between two sleeker city cars, and three dirty Land Rovers, and in approach of the glass doors. Other mothers and fathers are greeting each other, in the lobby, personably, and affably, in that enviable, relaxed, chit-chatty, small-talking way that Kurt’s father never quite mastered, and will find even harder here, amongst strangers, the child reckoned.

     Kurt was as silent as his dad. Nervous and tense. He was in his blue-and-red Dalton primary uniform under his quilted black jacket. They were in such a rush.

     Burt Hummel drove them there from Kurt’s school, as Kurt sat in the backseat- fidgeting with his toy, and singing a new made-up song to himself.

     And now, it is too late; Kurt’s hair looks messy from school.

     Burt’s protective instinct reaches out. He desperately does not want him to be laughed at. He will already be dauntingly lonely in this group, well into their amounted meetings of weeks he’s missed. And the confusion about Kurt’s denial is still there: lurking. Sometimes, he calls his dad ‘mom and dad’ not just ‘daddy’. Sometimes he tells stories about his mom still being alive. He did it this morning.

     To Burt, it is bewildering and painful, which is why hasn’t addressed it before now. He merely hoped that Ms. Emma Pillsbury is right, and this group will somehow resolve it all- new friends and talking about how to get over this.

     So here we are.

     They loitered at the door as a blonde woman gives them a smile of reassurance, and holds open the glazed door.

     “Burt Hummel?”

     “Yes, er?”

     “Checked you on LinkedIn. Just curious to know who the new parents might be.” She tilted an indulgent expression at Kurt. “And this must be Kurt. Kurt Hummel?” She ushers them in. “You look just like your photos! I’m Sue Sylvester. Great to have a new boy in the group. Please just call me Sue.” She looked back at Burt. “I’m the secretary.”

     Burt nodded casually, still a bit tense. He turned around for his son, who wasn’t where- that’s funny.

     Kurt had found a little boy who was sitting in the drab lobby, most likely waiting for his parents to pick him up. The smaller boy was small, very small, with tastefully moussed black, curly hair, dark amber eyes, and a similar uniform to Kurt’s on. He was apparently a student at Dalton Primary, too.

     “Can I ask you a question? I’m new here. Why’re you so sad?”

     “My name’s Blaine,” was the quietly offered response. Burt smiled- maybe his son would be okay with this group thing. It was only a matter of time.

fin.

[alliwannadoiscomerunning]

Cooper Mourns (Pt. 2)

Dec 16, 2013 4:43 PM 

    “And as we continue to cover the damage caused by the famed-Particle Accelerator explosion in Central City, Ohio, more bulletins are coming in. Fatalities are now reported to be at least 17 confirmed dead and countless injured. Central City is accepting police assistance from Starling City, as well as Keystone City to help with trafficking and repairs. S.T.A.R. Labs appears currently unavailable to tell us what went wrong just five days ago...”

     The sound of the news reporter on the television barely made Cooper flinch. Five days had passed, and his brother was alive, at least. At least Captain Singh at the C.C.P.D. had let him be relieved of his duties, even though Cooper knew that they needed all hands on deck.

     Some were calling it the new 9/11, but Cooper disagreed. It was a science experiment gone wrong on a major scale, and his city and family had to pay the price. He was barely making it through this, his heart pumping blood either sluggishly in defeat, or erratically in fear of losing Blaine.

     Cooper was alone, and he felt it.

     He stood up, and strode over to the window of his apartment purposefully. He stared at the distant horizon. He surveyed the city, realizing that out of all the moments he had felt utterly and spectacularly alone in the metropolis, he had never experienced anything like this before. He didn’t know how to deal with the pain of seeing his brother in a hospital bed without his parents at his side. They were always there the times before now.

     Cooper was only meant to be at the apartment to change and shower, before he had to get back to Blaine, who was still in critical condition.

    “I promise.” He whispered as he stared at the sky through the window. When the thick silence hung in the air and held no reply or comfort, he repeated himself.

    “I promise.”

     Silence.

     What he was promising, he wasn’t sure, but Blaine needed him. And with that, Cooper grabbed his car keys and left.

| Part 1 |

[alliwannadoiscomerunning]

Cooper Mourns (Pt. 1)

Dec 11 2013 9:02 PM Day of Particle Accelerator Explosion

     Cooper was on the clock at the Central City Police Department when the explosion occurred.

     For a moment, he thought it was all part of the elaborate dream he experienced the other day when him and Blaine went out to a bar and got completely wasted. Blaine mourned the loss of his relationship with Kurt, and Cooper just took as many shots as his brother did, so he wouldn’t feel alone.

     But today, the pounding in his head told him that reality was something much different than a drinking game.

     No, he was sober, and there was something really, really wrong with that science event thing at S.T.A.R. Labs.

     Cooper didn’t count the seconds of how long he stood there, staring at lights emitted from the Particle Accelerator just blocks away.

     For a moment, or maybe this was just what he remembered, the thought crossed his mind that the terror was almost... pretty. The orange and yellow reflection of fire against the blue and gray steel buildings were a bright contrast, accented by the clouds of black smoke, almost unseen in the night sky. It covered up stars and was occasionally lit up by lightning from the storm.

     It was only distant screams that brought him back to life.

     His brother, Blaine.

     Blaine had been watching the Particle Accelerator turn on from his new apartment, just a street away from S.T.A.R. Labs, in the expensive business district. Their parents’ inheritance had really paid off for him, from what Cooper let him have. Cooper would give Blaine anything to make up for the childhood they had.

     Cooper ran.

     He sprinted, running as fast his human legs would let him.

     People were clumping everywhere, and he pushed and squirmed to get to the spot where Blaine’s apartment building was, using his police badge as an excuse.

     The air was thick with smoke and other responding C.C.P.D. officers were already warning people away from the area around the building.

     “Blaine! Blaine!” He found himself screaming his little brother’s name, his voice hoarse and cracking in the panic.

     “Blaine!” He halted at the insistence of a few of the other officers, who were giving him concerned looks, despite the crowd in front.

     Everywhere, the C.C.P.D. and Central City Fire Brigade were trying to get people away from the building and the crowd subsequently under control.

     Cooper’s shouts were lost in the pandemonium of citizens all around him, calling out names, crying, screaming...

     “Blaine!” He called out desperately again as another police officer pushed him backwards, one that he recognized as his partner, Eddie Thawne, who had followed him out the door. When he refused to be budged, Eddie, so hopelessly confused and concerned, had to put his hands on his shoulders with force and shift him back.

     Just as he was about to push back against his partner, he saw it, and all his cries fell short.

     There were people lying on the ground, fallen from the observatory deck.

     He stopped screaming. He stopped panicking. He started to vomit.      An otherworldly calm began to wash over Cooper, and he just knew.

     It felt like the earth was still shaking, to Cooper, but on a less than before. It was like he was trying to block all things out, but the only thing he could not was the acceptance. The acceptance that his brother was lost.

| Part 2 |

[alliwannadoiscomerunning]

All I Want to Do is Come Running

Nov 11, 2013 9:00 AM One month before the Particle Accelerator explodes

      The sound of rain battering on the roof of the rental was all Blaine could hear as he drove in the dark with trembling hands. The car was an Audi, and if Blaine wanted to think more, he’d have thought to ask for a better one.

       But Blaine didn’t care. A man as he should have, would have, prowled the Hertz carpark in the early hours of dawn, fresh off his morning flight. The unusually good-natured attendant and would ave held a brief conversation with him as he scoured for the mid-sized vehicle he liked. Maybe negotiated for an upgrade in the frosty sunlight, his family standing behind him with their luggage. Kurt would have acted the impatient angel he was. And now, Blaine was alone.

       The shaking man was approaching Central City limits, his tanned hands gripping the steering wheel of the Audi with whiter knuckles. He briefly glanced into the front mirror at his reflection, an unusually handsome face for someone so broken.  Damaged inside.

       Blaine couldn’t even sigh. His eyes were wide, and his dark, gelled hair appeared mussed and frazzled in the light.

       He didn’t know where he was going, but he knew what he was- lost.  Blaine drove in silence; he didn’t dare turn on the radio. He couldn’t.

      “Squirt?” Blaine heard a voice as the car door was opened. “What’re you-”

      Blaine got out of the black Audi with unsteady feet, shivering in the winter morning. His small frame was covered suddenly by his brother’s warm embrace. He found comfort at last.

[alliwannadoiscomerunning]

This Nightmare

Dec 11 2013 9:00 PM Day of Particle Accelerator Explosion

     December 11th was an important day. That night, however, Blaine was interested in a spectacular event- but not just any event- the switching on of S.T.A.R. Labs’ famed Particle Accelerator.          “Do you think it’s going to work?” wondered a stranger as Blaine arrived on the rooftop of his brand new apartment building. That’s right- Blaine was now getting his own place in Central City. Blaine imagined he was encroaching on Cooper’s welcoming hospitality the longer he stayed. And so, that night, he was in charge of entertaining himself, which ended up with him watching the Particle Accelerator being turned on. Blaine was excited.

     A few other tenants were up there, as well. Blaine smiled at them, his face bright, if not for the darkness around them all. They politely nodded back.

     The night was sharp, with only the icy remnants of fallen stars to guide the strangers home. Under the shroud of ancient blackness, the many figures stood, not alone, but Blaine experienced something of the sort very similar to isolation.

     They weren’t excited, not like him. Blaine, irregularly, had a heart bursting with anticipation. It wasn’t often he got truly riled about anything, anymore. Not after the break up with Kurt.

     A rare opening of light split the darkness…A woman was telling him something…at its center…her tone frantic.…Blaine didn’t move or blink, in…The woman spoke, “Get out!” a sudden haze…

     “Sir, I don’t think this is safe, we should go-”

     He was waiting for the invasion to stop. It did.

     “Come on!”

     Three seconds more. His body felt the prick of adrenaline, letting loose in his bloodstream like poison through a vein…

     Blaine didn’t like being afraid. He felt the woman tug on his arms, and for a brief moment, saw the light from the Particle Accelerator, brilliant as the sun in the sky, but it was night out. He could see the wave of energy coming closer, swallowing his view of S.T.A.R. Labs. It was storming, and as soon as Blaine tried to run, to try and get to safety, the world went up in sparks, lightning, and and the worst of all, there was the explosion…