Chapter eight- birds fly over the rainbow

Kurt:

I need Blaine. I need Blaine now, but I can't have him. I only have my memories left. God, I want Blaine, I need Blaine, where is Blaine? It doesn't matter, Kurt, it doesn't matter. It will be—no it won't—you'll survive—no you won't—he'll just—no he won't—I'm helpless. I'm utterly helpless. I can't do anything. But I can't give up. Not yet. I just need to breathe—live—get out—fly free—I need a little more courage, courage, ha. Maybe I'll go jump off a fucking swing! ...Well... Maybe I will.

*

Blaine is being shaken into consciousness. Goddammit, consciousness. He doesn't want consciousness. He wants to never wake up to reality. Who the hell is shaking him? Stop that—stop—freak—

"Stop!" he says, loud and clear and not out loud. What's wrong? What's wrong with him? Blaine suddenly feels like crying, and tears fill his eyes, and, oh, god, he's sore. He's sore all over and he's shivering and he feels battered and bruised and—oh. He is. Blaine turns his head to see strong hands clasping his shoulder, and further down his arm, black and blue. The sky is black and blue. The sun is coming up from one direction but the moon is still hanging there, refusing to go away. And the shaking isn't going away, either.

"Stop," he says again, confident that it's out loud this time—and it is.

"Oh my god, you're awake," a very familiar voice says, and—oh my god, it's Kurt. Kurt, his brave strong good prince. Blaine blinks, confused—how the hell did Kurt get here, how did he know?—but he's more concerned with the fact that Kurt has dimly-lit sunlight-glimmered green askew in his hair. Then Blaine realizes that there are also woodchips there, in the highly tousled brownness, and that Kurt is not wearing Skank clothing. Why is Kurt not wearing Skank clothing, or any piercings and stuff? Has he quit the Skanks? Can you quit the Skanks? Blaine didn't know about that. Not that he was specifically looking out for Kurt's name in gossip whenever he heard it, but, well, things get around to even the quietest in the class fairly quickly. "Can you talk to me?" Kurt is saying, giving Blaine a little shake out of his excuses and back into his proper thoughts. "God, I hope they didn't fuck with your throat. How bad did you get beaten up?"

"Beaten up?" Blaine asks, and Kurt gives a small oh.

"You don't remember," he says, and Blaine wants to say—wait—no—yes—I do—I remember—Dalton—six—four—two—I remember—but then his thoughts are gone, hidden under a blank disguise, a blank face, his mask.

"Kurt," he says instead, and gestures—ow—to Kurt's hair. "There's something in your hair."

Kurt frowns and pushes his hand through his hair, removing it from Blaine's shoulder to do so. Blaine still has one of Kurt's hands, though, on his other shoulder, grounding him, keeping him there.

"There's nothing in my hair, B-Bl-Bl-fuck," Kurt says, frustrated and annoyed, and Blaine is instantly full of regret for making Kurt feel bad.

"I'm sorry," he says, biting his lip, but he can't look down in shame because he's faceup on the woodchips and—"God, Kurt, it hurts." His body is registering just how much it's been damaged, and it doesn't feel good. Blaine, to his own extreme disgust, starts to cry. Kurt looks down at him, and his face moves closer to Blaine's, and Blaine thinks that maybe Kurt is going to—going to—go—going—go—to—get—out—what? Kurt suddenly draws up and away, but he pulls Blaine with him from his hand, and—his fingers dig into a sensitive, fresh bruise, and Blaine yelps.

"Oh, Bl-Bla-B, I'm sorry," Kurt says, eyes going wide with Blaine's cry, and Blaine's eyes go wide too, because Kurt remembered his nickname.

"No, it's okay," Blaine says through gritted teeth—what Kurt remembers can be dealt with later, after it just stops hurting so damn much—

"You're bleeding," Kurt says, "on your neck. Fuck, I thought it wasn't—you weren't—they hadn't—god, B, can you stand? Put your weight on me—here—okay, I think that's good," Kurt says as Blaine shakily manages to get to his feet, leaning on Kurt's shoulder the entire time. Kurt drags his hand slowly down Blaine's arm from Blaine's shoulder, not looking him in the eye, and clasps their hands together tightly. He brings their entwined hands swiftly to his face, and Blaine feels the soft touch of lips over his knuckles before Kurt releases his hand and Blaine sways for a terrifying moment before Kurt puts his arm across the back of Blaine's neck and rubs his hand slowly over Blaine's shoulder. Blaine slumps into Kurt gratefully and looks up at him through his eyelashes, but Kurt's gaze is set decisively and unwaveringly forward, the blue of his eyes looking at the ever-lightening blue of the sky as the sun comes up. Blaine feels the sun's warmth spreading over his chilled body as Kurt guides them out of the playground, over the night's cold atmosphere, and into his mind, where steadily and surely, it melts the mask—drip—drip—drip—of the disguise—drip—drip—drip—off the memories.

"Kurt," Blaine chokes out, a warning before the melted mask slides from his mind into his throat and cuts off all other words and memories in his mouth and bile is rising again, tasting of alcohol and something slightly cheesy, artificially cheesy, and there is not a blackness but a blueness, swirling and rising endless like the ocean and crashing wave after wave over Blaine's vision until his mind has no choice but to shut down but it doesn't go blank—

There is a movie in his mind, and it is about a little girl with an ever-lightening checkered dress, blue blending into white in the fuzz of the screen, and her shoes—her shoes—Blaine strains his weary eyes and lifts his heavy head and stretches his bleeding neck but he cannot see their color.

Instead, he sees a scarecrow that is frightening the black birds away and a man made out of tin who cannot move properly and a lion that cannot bear to be brave and a witch whose skin is green as an apple who melts in waves of water and a huge, fake head, a mask covering a very little man, and a tiny dog that does not cower in the face of danger until he finds himself in over his head and a winged monkey that is both escaping and trapped and another witch who is only trying to do good, well, aren't they all, and a multitude of citizens all unwilling to believe the truth and a small, fragile people that are so easily broken and an armless group with large heads and mean words and a balloon, up, up, and away—

And a girl. A little girl with a gingham patterned blue dress and a white blouse and curly ginger hair and red bows in her hair?

And something on her feet. Glinting, glimmering, shining, shimmering, so bright that the sun blinds out their color.

Blaine blinks furiously and clears the sunspots from his eyes and his mind and he still sees them slightly, hovering over his movie, more blue than black but very, very dark. He closes his eyes tight and wills the spots to go away. When he opens them, they are gone.

And so is his picture. Instead, he is staring up at a blank, white screen. Up. Staring up. It is almost like—like a ceiling—like a roof—like protection—

And then his mind really does go out and everything goes with it too.

*

Blaine's mom:

I don't know where Blaine is. I don't know where he went, but I didn't hear the door open last night. His windows are glued shut, so he couldn't have gone out that way. I didn't hear the door, but must've opened. I promised Blaine when he was born that I would protect him. All I've done in his life is protect him and the one time I slip into a deep enough sleep that I don't hear him sneak out is the time when he's unprotected, and drunk, and—alone. I don't know where Blaine is, and thus I've failed Blaine. I've failed at being a mother. I've got to be better. I've got to get better. He hates it when I fuss over him, but what else can I do? Look at what happens when I don't. I need Blaine, even if he doesn't need me. I need something to care about.

*

Blaine's dad:

That stupid fucking kid—what the hell was he thinking, sneaking out inebriated like that? I can't believe Mary didn't wake up. I come back from work after spending the night in Columbus for the late meeting, come back to an empty house. Well, not empty. Mary's here, crying and telling me that Blaine's gone, Blaine's gone, Tom—why would Blaine go? Well I don't fucking know, Mary. You've always said that Blaine was your kid and your responsibility, much as Cooper is mine. Why didn't you wake up and protect him?