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alliwannadoiscomerunning · 8 years ago

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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.

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