The inside of the tree has always been important to Kurt and Blaine. They would spend their playtime under its shade during preschool, hiding from the boys that were mean to Kurt.

In elementary school it was their meeting place after Kurt went to the local public school and Blaine's dad enrolled him in the stuffy private school miles away. No matter what happened at school during the day, they always made the journey (five blocks for Kurt, seven for Blaine) to the willow tree with something to share, whether it be a snack, a toy, or a book. One day Kurt's mom drove his tea set over so the two boys could introduce Kurt's Power Rangers and Blaine's Transformers in what Kurt called a "civilized manner".

After a while, they realized it made more sense to go over to each other's houses. Blaine's house was huge, like a castle, with plenty of places to play hide and seek, and Kurt's house had his mom, who made them cookies and taught the boys how to make arts and crafts. Meetings at the willow tree became less frequent, but it always remained their place, their tree.

"Last time," Blaine announces with a sad smile as he plops down to lean against the trunk. Kurt lowers himself next to his boyfriend a bit more gracefully, sniffling slightly. "You okay?" Blaine asks, bumping his shoulder affectionately.

"No," Kurt admits, swiping at his eyes. "I hate today. Carole hasn't stopped crying and my dad just keeps making me and Finn promise to look our for each other."

"Yeah," Blaine sighs, "Coop keeps giving me all sorts of advice, like he knows what's going to happen or something. I know he's trying to be helpful, but it's just coming off as...well...Cooperish."

Kurt gives a small laugh. "At least he hasn't changed."

"Yeah."

"You wanna climb?"

"Yeah."

Kurt, taller than Blaine, had been able to climb the tree first. He used clamber up a couple branches and hang off by his legs with Blaine lying on his back below. They'd chat like that, and sometimes Kurt would bring grapes to throw down into Blaine mouth.

Nowadays they're both tall enough to climb. The branches are rough between Blaine's fingers as he pulls himself up, up, until he's settled onto their usual branch, stretched across the limb so that his head rests in Kurt's lap.

"How you've never fallen out of this tree, I'll never know," Kurt remarks from sitting position, his own grip firmly on the branch above them.

"Don't jinx me!" Blaine exclaims, kicking down a leg to swing through the open air. It's the perfect day, the breeze coming in gentle gusts that rustle the leaves. There are wind chimes hung from windows of the preschool that he can hear, a familiar sound that brings back memories of hundreds of previous afternoons. Kurt's jeans smell like Downy, and he inhales deeply, smiling.

"No matter what happens tomorrow, we're always going to have right now. We're always going to have our tree," he remarks, hoping that the thought comforts Kurt as much as it comforts him.

"Don't. I'll start crying, again," Kurt responds, his tone stern, but after a moment he moves one of his hands from its tight grip to play with Blaine's hair.

"I love you," Blaine starts to chant. "I love you, I love you, I love, I love you." He turns his head to look up at Kurt's face, waiting for a grin. Kurt bites his lip, knowing this game well.

"And IIIIIIII will always love yooooooooooooouuu," he retries jokingly, earning himself a glare.

"Don't even try to pull off Whitney, dear," Kurt admonishes, but there's just enough amusement in his tone that Blaine knows it's okay to continue.

He switches to Barney for a moment ("I love you, you love me, I'm glad we're not family, with some making love and rose from me to you, won't you say you love me, too?"), then sits up to belt out most of Elephant Love Medley until Kurt finally cracks and smiles. Blaine gives a triumphant hoot at his favorite sight and slides off the branch, dropping ten feet to land on his feet before promptly falling onto his butt. This earns a laugh from Kurt.

"Well, you certainly won't be winning any medals for grace," Kurt taunts, opting to climb down the way they came up rather than take Blaine's riskier route. Still, he never misses a chance to show off, and drops down when he's five feet up into a perfect landing.

Blaine still wins. He always wins when it comes to making Kurt happy.

The Hudson-Hummel household is quiet that night. Carole finally stops crying halfway through dinner, leaving the table in an awkward silence. Once everyone is finished Kurt rises hastily to collect the dishes, eager to escape the uncomfortable room. Instead, he's interrupted by his father.

"Leave them, Kurt," Burt orders. "There's no point."

Kurt stands frozen in the spot for a minute, bowl in hand. Despite his oath that he wouldn't cry in front of his family his lip begins to quiver, but before the first sob makes its way from his throat his father's arms are wrapped tightly around him.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, and Kurt buries his face in his shoulder, drawing in the smell that's always comforted him, a mix of cologne and tire rubber, for maybe the last time.

The dishes get washed that night, apocalypse be damned.

Across town, the Anderson household is a bit more reserved. They don't eat dinner together, and Blaine doesn't eat at all. He spends the afternoon in his room, running his hand along all of his possessions, shuffling through drawers to look at his old school papers. At nine o'clock the grandfather clock chimes, ringing throughout the house. He picks himself off the floor littered with papers to go say goodnight to his mother.

The house feels empty as he makes his way down the large marble staircase. It's always felt empty, eight thousand square feet for only four people and a couple of maids (home with their families tonight, as they should be).

His socks slide a little when he hits the landing, almost sending him toppling. Wouldn't that be ironic if he died first, rather than being saved tomorrow? The only person in his family with a chance, dead before anyone else. It's the kind of thing that would end up happening to him, so he takes the next flight a bit more cautiously.

The door to his parents' room is mahogany and tall, at least twice as tall as Blaine. As a little boy it had intimidated him, scaring him out of seeking refuge from nightmares in his parent's room. He'd always ran for Cooper's room instead. Tonight, for the first time in years, the door scares him, though for a completely different reason.

Last time, a voice whispers in the back of his head. Last time you open this door. Last time you say goodnight.

This whole day has just been one big last time.

He pushes it open slowly, trying to feel how heavy it is so he can remember the weight, how the grooves cut into his hand.

His mother is lying on her bed, something in her lap. A book? No. Blaine smiles slightly when he recognizes it. The photo album.

He can't remember the last time he hugged his mother. No, wait, he can. It was the night he came out, when his father stormed out of the room and she tentatively wrapped her arms around him and whispered timidly that she loved him anyway.

She'd barely touched him since, going through the motions of motherhood, but nothing more. She'd driven him to school, but never bothered to ask about his day. She gave him a curfew and reminded him to text her, but never scolded him when he forgot the time. He'd tested it once, stayed at Kurt's house until three in the morning. His parents were sound asleep when he tiptoed in. The next morning they never even asked where he'd been.

When he sees the photo album, hope rises in his chest. Looking at it is the most motherly thing he's seen her do in years. The album has pictures of his parents when they were younger, pictures of Cooper, but it was first put together when Blaine was born. It was meant to be for him, and it was mostly pictures of him.

Blaine knows he'll never tell anyone about it, not even Kurt, because he is ashamed. His mother hasn't been a good mother, not since he was fourteen. It should take more than some slight nostalgia on her part to earn his affections back.

He'll never tell anyone, but that doesn't mean it doesn't happen. He crawls into bed next to his mother and rests his head on her shoulder, and they both flip through photos until she starts to cry.

He should have left then, left her to be miserable alone.

"I should have b-been better," she sobs. "I should have paid more attention."

"No, mom," he whispers comfortingly. "You did just fine." The lie comes naturally.

"No, I didn't," she wails, inconsolable. "If we'd done a better job, you wouldn't be like this."

He should have left then. He should have left as soon as those words left her mouth, as soon as he realized that out of all the things happening, all of the things that would occur tomorrow, him being gay was still the most upsetting thing to her.

He doesn't leave. He still doesn't leave. He sits there and rubs her back, comforts her as she continues to cry, lamenting the fact that he is gay and a failure. Every word is a knife, but he sits there and takes it, tells her it wasn't her fault, that she'd done the best she could.

It's hard to leave a dying woman alone with her regrets.

He should have left.

The ride to Columbus the next morning is low key. All five of them want to cry, emotionally heavy from their goodbyes with their families, but no one wants to be the first to break and set the others off. Puck and Finn make small talk in the front seat as Kurt and Blaine cuddle in the back, holding hands tight, whispering to each other. Puck's little sister Sarah is next to them, so they try to keep the PDA to a minimum, but they kiss slow and soft once as they pass the Lima city limits.

Last time, whispers the voice in the back of Blaine's head, but he pushes it away. No more lasts. He's sick of them.

The ships are visible five miles out. There's three of them, massive black structures. Black is camouflage in space. Blaine remembers hearing that somewhere. The Science channel? He'd seen a special one time, post-invasion of course, about the new science being brought to Earth. These ships are special, specifically built to taxi millions of humans to other parts of space, equipped to house them for months during the journey.

They're forced to leave their cars about a mile away from the ships, left with only the clothes on their backs and whatever they can cram into the government-issued yellow backpacks that are visible as far as the eye can. Blaine's never seen so many children at the same time. They swarm everywhere, evening out a little bit ahead where he can see everyone being filed into lines by the nerveron.

Puck grasps Sarah's hand tight, leading their small little group. Kurt and Blaine don't let go of each other, leaving Finn as a bit of a fifth wheel, but the inclusion is pretty much the last frigging thing on Blaine's mind at the moment.

As they get closer to the ships, he begins to see what the lines are for. A year ago, all children had an identification chip put in the back of their right eye. He can make out fully armored nerveron guards doing something with people's eyes and then pushing them through archways (shimmery, the telltale sign of nerveron wards) to board one of the two ships.

Lima inhabitants were assigned to the A ship. Blaine sees the giant letter painted on and tells Puck, who starts to shove their way over towards the correct cluster of lines.

"I hate this," Kurt whispers, grip tight on Blaine's hands.

"Me, too," he agrees, squeezing back just as tightly, not caring if he breaks a finger.

Finn steps up first once they finally reach the guards. The nerveron shines a scanner into his eye as he shifts awkwardly, then taps some buttons on his walkie-talkie shaped device and pushes Finn forward through the arch. He waves his hand (paw?) at Puck as Finn waits on the other side.

Sarah makes a small, nervous noise when Puck lets go of her hand, so Blaine lets go of Kurt to reach for her and pull her between them. He doesn't have a clue how she's coped so well this far. She's only eight, he's sixteen and he feels like bursting into tears.

After the same process is repeated on Puck, Blaine nudges Sarah forward, but she pulls back, a panicked look in her eyes.

"Do you want me to go first?" Blaine asks her, and she nods, turning her face into Kurt, who strokes her hair. "Okay, but you've got to go after me, okay?" She nods again.

Blaine lets go of Sarah and steps forward, shooting Kurt a small, comforting smile as the nerveron leans down to shine the scanner in his eye. Kurt smiles back, and Blaine is glad that even if all of this is happening, at least it's happening with Kurt.

The device beeps and flashes. The nerveron hesitates for a moment before typing something into his device.

There's much more typing this time, he can't help but notice. Finn and Puck only warranted a few clicks of the keypad. The nerveron types for a full twenty seconds.

Something's wrong. His stomach plummets.

"Do not pass," the nerveron orders, holding out an arm to block him from the gate.

"What's going on?" Kurt demands, voice going high with panic like it always does.

Two more nerveron appear out of nowhere, each one taking one of Blaine's arms. "What are you doing?" Blaine asks, trying to yank away, to go back to Kurt.

"You have been reassigned to a separate ship," drones the nerveron on his left. "There has been a mistake in your placement."

"No!" Kurt exclaims, letting go of Sarah to grab one of the nerveron. "He's going on our ship! Let him go!"

The original guard moves fast, has his gun (the nerveron equivalent, still just as deadly) pointed at Kurt the second he moves.

"You will not resist. You will allow transition," the guard to the left demands, then turns to Kurt. "You will not move. You will allow transition."

Kurt looks conflicted for a moment, tears shining in his eyes, but Blaine understands what needs to be done.

"It's okay," he tells Kurt. "We're all going to the same place. I'll just go on the other ship, okay?"

Kurt gets it. He grabs for Sarah again, pulls her against him and nods, putting on an expression Blaine's very familiar with. It's the face he used to wear when bullies bothered him and he was trying to make it out like less of a deal than it was. It's Kurt's fighter face.

Blaine hates that face, hates it, but it's better than Kurt being shot because he for trying to fight the guards. He would, if given the chance. Blaine knows he would.

"I'll find you," Kurt tells him firmly, and Blaine tries not to break eye contact as the two guards start to yank him away. "We'll find each other."

"We will," Blaine agrees, but the instant after Kurt is out of his line of vision, and the guards are dragging him, ignoring the fact that he's trying to walk and not resisting.

It's only once he's loaded onto Ship B, stuffed into his new sleeping quarters with nineteen other boys his age that he allows himself to cry. He thought he could handle this. He thought he could handle leaving his parents that weren't really parents, his brother that did nothing but hurt him, and a home that never felt homely. He was prepared for that, but he hadn't counted on having to leave Kurt.

One of the other boys, who has a bunk across from Blaine stares as a he sobs, but he can't bring himself to stop. He's too scared, and even in this crowded room, he feels way, way too alone.

Take-off is bumpy. One boy is sick. The smell is terrible.

Twenty minutes after they leave the atmosphere a voice comes over the intercom system.

"All human inhabitants over the age of seven must report to the main area to witness the destruction of your planet. This is not a request. All human inhabitants over the age of seven report to the main area. "

The main area reminds Blaine of the ballroom down at the country club in an odd way. Dozens of balconies rise above the main floor where he happens to be, each balcony ending about twenty feet from a gigantic, curved window.

Some people, tired from the trek, sink down to the floor and watch, some talking and some crying, but most silent.

Claustrophobia starts to creep into the corners of his mind, so he gently nudges the girl around ten next to him. "Excuse me," he mutters, pushing past her. It takes a good ten minutes of squeezing through the crowd, but he reaches the window.

It's cold to the touch. He presses his forehead against, staring out. He knows there's only a few inches of material separating him from space, but he feels detached from the fact.

"This is crazy," Kurt would say. Blaine can hear his exact tone, and smiles a bit. He can't see the other ships (guess the Science channel was right, black is camouflage in space) but he knows they're out there. Kurt is out there somewhere.

The voice comes back.

"Understand why your planet is about to be destroyed. Your race is destructive. They poison the universe with their hate and ego. They are not suitable to be part of the Union. Understand what rottenness is being destroyed, and rise above it. You are the future of your race."

A voice begins to countdown and Blaine stares at the Earth for the last time.

Last time, last time, last time, last time...

The younger boy next to him is sobbing. His cries cut through the other ruckus like a knife to Blaine. That kid has parents. They're probably thinking of him right now, back on Earth. They're probably worried, if they're good parents.

"Three," counts the curt, accented voice of the nerveron on the loudspeaker. "Two, one."

There is no noise. Space is a vacuum, Blaine knows that, but it feels like there should be noise. A girl somewhere screams.

It's like the Earth turns into the sun. One moment it floats there, peaceful, blue and green, and then it's just a ball of fire. He counts eleven seconds, and then it stops.

What is left is unrecognizable. It's dark and gray and shriveled. It's not a planet. It's not a home.

The Earth is gone.

Aboard the other ship, Kurt does not watch. He finds a corner somewhere, sinks down hard, the cold, silver wall against his back nothing like the comfort of the rough bark of the willow. Was that really only yesterday? The willow tree is gone now. Or is it? Surely they'll be screaming when it happens, and he hasn't heard screams.

No. Do not watch. Do not listen. Do not be history.

Kurt covers his ears, conjuring up new sights, new sounds.

It's the day before he starts his sophomore year, but school is the last thing on his mind. His father sits ramrod straight on the couch next to him, hand over mouth as he watches the television with fear in his eyes. It's in sharp contrast with Burt's usual position, relaxed in the recliner with a beer in hand.

"After a day of negotiations, an agreement has been reached. The invading species is hesitant to slaughter an entire race, particularly children..."

Kurt turns away from the president on the screen. He's ready to die, has been since the invasion began, but there's a difference between being prepared for something and it actually happening. Instead of listening to the president deliver the final blow, sealing their fate, he covers his ears and watches his father's expression.

One of the great sanctuaries of childhood is that parents, especially dads, do not cry, so when tears start to pour down his father's face, Kurt panics. He expected tears, but not from his dad.

"Please don't cry, Dad" he insists, and he hears his pitch goes embarrassingly high with anxiety as he removes his hands from his ears. "Please don't be sad."

"I'm not sad," Burt insists after moment, pausing to wipe away tears. "I'm so happy."

"But..." Kurt trails off, confused, as Burt turns to face him, a terribly out of place glimmer of triumph in his eyes.

"You get to live, Kurt," he announces, a small smile spreading across his face. "The children get to live."