"I hope you have a good time," Kurt wished his father, Carole, and a rather groggy looking Finn well on their way out to church at nine o'clock in the morning. Receiving a scowl that was contorted by a stifled yawn from Finn, Kurt could feel himself smiling even larger. As he swung the door shut behind them, he whispered, "Thank God!"

For the past hour and a half, Kurt had been attempting to shove his father and Carole out the door, and with them, they had dragged a resentful Finn. But Kurt wasn't forced to go. That was something that Kurt and his father had decided upon the previous year when Kurt was struggling with his beliefs. It was obvious that Burt wished Kurt would come with them, but they had compromised by saying it wasn't mandatory for him to come every Sunday.

And this is a rather special Sunday, Kurt reminded himself. It had been two weeks since that night; the one that Kurt would never forget, no matter what happened between him and Blaine. At these memories, Kurt could feel a tightening in his lungs and an ache in his chest. Even though it had been weeks, the thought of what Blaine went through still turned the acid in his stomach sour. The image still stung his eyes with fresh tears as his memory transported him back to that night.

Slamming his hand into the edge of the rock-hard granite countertop, Kurt jolted into reality. Subconsciously, he had made his way back into the kitchen, and with his thoughts in their current state, he had lost all sense of his surroundings. Now, standing in the middle of the room, Kurt tried not to remember the boy who had stood in front of him. The broken and bloody boy that just looked so scared.

No, Kurt thought forcibly to himself, today is supposed to be perfect! I'm not supposed to think about any of this, even if it's just for this one day! It is an extremely important day, and there is no way I can let Blaine's birthday be anything less than perfect!

Now, with these thoughts fixed in his mind, Kurt began hurrying around the kitchen, preparing an extra special surprise for Blaine. Pulling on an apron to prevent any possible disasters that could occur with his clothes, he made sure to not mess up his hair. Swiftly, he passed through the kitchen and gathered all of the ingredients, not even needing a recipe. His hands moved quickly as he prepared the dish well known to him; it was one that he always made for his father on his birthday and one that his mother used to make for him. French toast wasn't anything exceptionally special, but the way his mother had cooked it using fresh loaves of bread, apples, and cinnamon with a topping of hand whipped cream just gave him comfort.

As Kurt hummed along with the music playing through his mind, the bread sizzled loudly in the pan. He slid the perfectly golden French toast from the pan onto a heart shaped plate and added a dollop of the hand-made whipped cream on top. Admiring his handiwork, he placed the plate onto a tray he had prepared. Along with the French toast and a mug of coffee, there was a small vase of three roses. Bright crimson would have been too over the top, so Kurt had opted for more gentle, peach colored roses that seemed as if the tips had been lightly dipped in red. He couldn't stop a silly grin from spreading across his face. I can't wait to see Blaine's reaction, Kurt practically squealed, I hope he likes it!

Groaning when he saw the soft sunlight streaming around the edges of the window curtain, Blaine turned over and buried his head into his pillow. He hadn't slept for more than a half-hour at a time, his mind plaguing him with memories in the form of dreams. Today was the one day of the year that he dreaded more than the others; it was his birthday.

Smashing his face even tighter to the feather soft pillow beneath it, he tried to suppress the memories that just kept flashing before his eyes. Though they were already burned into his brain permanently, Blaine just kept rehashing them.

A small six year-old in his first year of school came home after a particularly special day of school. Because it was his birthday, the teacher and other students had sung him happy birthday and let him make a special crown to wear for the day. Before that day, he hadn't realized how important birthdays were supposed to make a person feel. Everyone had wanted to sit next to him that day and be best friends with him on the playground.

After three more years, the novelty had begun to wear off. When his classmates treated him in a much kinder way than the other days, Blaine knew that they were just faking their interest in him. They just wanted to be in the spotlight, and that spotlight never shone on Blaine. Truthfully, though, it wasn't what the other kids did that really bothered him, it was the faltering smile on his mother's face and the look of disregard in his father's eyes.

Not even noticing as his eyelids blinked closed yet again, he could see before him the most recent and engrained memory of his birthday two years ago.

Candlelight shimmered through Blaine's otherwise dark bedroom, illuminating his eyes and leaving small spots in his vision. The candles weren't anything special, colored a standard white and propped together in an empty water glass, but they were all Blaine had. Anyways, he thought, there is something stunning yet simplistic in the glow of sixteen candles. For another moment, all he could do was gaze into the flickering flames dancing together before he decided to make a wish. It wasn't even a wish, exactly, but it was more of just an assortment of hopes: to do something nice for his mother, to make her smile through all the pain, and to learn to smile himself. But last of all, and certainly not least, he wished he had courage. Yes, he did smile, a well-perfected, plastered on smile, but what he really wanted was to just smile because he was truly happy. He was tired of just pasting on that smile so that he could pretend to be the courageous person that everyone else saw, and he didn't know how much longer he could keep it up. What he really wanted was to have that courage, but inside, he could never get in right. With a shaking breath, Blaine blew the candles out, watching as the soft trembling of every candle sputtered into darkness. Please, just give me courage.

A loud crashing, the breaking of glass somewhere in his house, caused Blaine's head to snap up. It had to be his father, and by the sound of it, he was furious. Eyes still adjusting to the inky blackness, he stumbled over the piles of books and clothes littering his floor as he found the path to his door. Gently, so that he didn't make a sound, Blaine found the cold metal of his doorknob and twisted.

"I don't give a damn that the faggot I'm forced to call my son is now one year older! The only consolation I get is that he is one year closer to death!" Mr. Anderson's voice echoed down the hallway from his parents' room, and Blaine felt a sudden jolt of electricity run through his heart. It wasn't the words themselves that really shocked him; every time that his father was drunk, similar things would spew from his mouth, yet they were nonetheless painful to hear. What truly shook him to the core was the clarity of his father's voice. Blaine's father wasn't even drunk this time. The words he was saying revealed what he truly felt without the haze of alcohol clouding his brain. And the truth was that he still despised the very existence of his son.

Blaine could feel his hands trembling, yet he wasn't sure whether it was from anger or from fright. Clenching his teeth at his father's derogatory comment, Blaine hated that he felt pity for himself. It's not like I deserve anything else. I have a roof over my head and food on my plate, I should be grateful enough of just that. He knew that if he turned around right now and locked his door, he might be able to keep himself safe tonight, yet Blaine couldn't tear himself away from the conversation his parents were having. As his mother's soothing voice tried to calm her husband, Blaine heard the sound of impact made by his father's fist, followed by a small whimper from his mother. It's not her fault! Blaine wanted to scream. Stomach roiling, he winced as his father's voice resonated again through the house. "You stupid woman!"

Yet another thud sounded, and Blaine just couldn't take it anymore. It felt as if someone else was dictating his movements as his feet made their way down the hallway, pausing momentarily outside his parents' door. Unsteadily, his legs propelled him forward and he pushed open the door. Cowering away from her husband, Blaine's mother already had blood dripping from her face, and Blaine's stomach protested against this sight. I promised that I would keep her safe now that I am older, and so far, all I've done is fail her. Darting his eyes to meet his father's, Blaine could clearly the fury in those cold, twisted features, and seeing just how sober they looked still hurt. Even though he had believed that his father wasn't drunk, he had still been holding on to it as a pathetic kind of hope. Being drunk was the excuse that Blaine had given his father, but if that wasn't the case, he didn't know if he could deal with it.

Sneering at him, Blaine's father jeered, "What? You thought that you would just bust in here and everything would be all right? Or did you just want to join your mother?" Blaine hated the way that his father referred to his wife. It was always your mother or her, as if not holding any possession of her would distance their connection. "Look at the two of you," his father taunted. "Neither of you even have the guts to say shit to me in return, you faggot!"

Blaine didn't know what made him do it; maybe it was that he was sick of the nauseating aspersions spewing from his father's mouth, or maybe it was that fact that his mother's bright green eyes were pleading for someone to help her. All he knew was that suddenly, his fist was stinging as it connected with his father's face.

Underneath his fingers, he could feel something crack under the force. What have I just done? Retracting his hand almost as quickly as he had swung it out in the first place, Blaine noticed two things. One, his father's hands were clutched to his nose as blood dripped through the gaps of his fingers. The second thing he noticed was that his father now had a sickening grin spreading across his face, and that terrified Blaine more than anything else.

"Fucking fag! You broke my nose!" Blaine's father exploded, and his mother shrunk back even farther. "Do you think you can just saunter in and have everything under control?" Lips curling over his teeth, his father let out a hoarse bark that resembled some twisted kind of laughter. Closing the ground between them, Blaine's father was now mere inches from his face. They were so close that Blaine could feel he heat of breath on his face, yet his feet were frozen in that spot. Not that it would really matter. Even if he had been able to move, there was nowhere to go that his father wouldn't reach him.

Leaning in closer, if that was possible, Blaine's father hissed, "Well you're wrong. I'm the one in control. And you're the one who is going to pay." Blaine's head swam with a wave of dizzying panic, and he pleaded for his legs to just work. Please, God, not today… I just wanted to have today… just this one day. But Blaine's feet still weren't budging as his father's hands flew up to his throat, the pressure constricting his airways. Sucking in a wheezy breath through the small space that was left, Blaine could feel the harsh fingers pressing into the tender sides of his throat, and he knew that they would leave even more mottled bruises on his skin. Then a chilling thought crossed his mind and raised the hairs on his arms. If I even live until tomorrow.

Blaine could feel the pressure of his blood building in his head, and black speckles were appearing around the edges of his vision. Please, he tried to speak, please. Just that one word, over and over; please, please, please... But all that came out was a strangled gurgling sound.

The merciless smirk spreading across his father's face widened unpleasantly to show teeth. "What are you trying to say, faggot?" he growled. "This too much for you to handle?" Speckles were closing in now, and with the pressure on his throat, Blaine couldn't give any kind of response. It wasn't like his father would have even given him time to respond, because a moment later, Blaine felt the severe impact of a knee right below his ribs. If he wasn't pinned back by his father's hands, he would have been doubled over with the pain. Before he even got a chance to process the action, another sharp blow slammed into his abdomen. A rush of blood surged in his ears, and Blaine couldn't stop his knees from buckling underneath of him. He vaguely realized that he was suddenly gasping the air, the hands that had been crushing his throat now gone. This time, it was a hard shoe that connected with his ribcage, and Blaine could feel something crack. One of his ribs breaking? But he couldn't tell. His senses and the throbbing pains were beginning to go numb. Is this the end? Is this the end of everything I've been fighting for? Finally, the black speckles filled in the last bits of the scene so that he could no longer see the figure looming over him or the jade eyes of his mother, wide with terror. There was just pitch black.

Then, he felt a soft touch graze his cheek. Flailing wildly, his arm made contact with something, no, someone that let out a high-pitched yelp. Wait, what? Eyes flying open, Blaine cringed as the bright light practically blinded him. His racing heart faltered as the spots in his sight cleared.

Kurt.

Within a fraction of a second, Blaine realized that he wasn't trapped inside his memory anymore. His ribs still ached with a phantom pain, but he was safe. He was alive.

"Blaine?" Standing a few feet away, Kurt was staring at him in apprehension. His eyebrows were knit together with confusion and his forehead was wrinkled with worry. The concern that was clear in Kurt's eyes made Blaine falter. What am I supposed to do now? I can't tell him, I just can't. I can't watch that face crumple. I can't be the cause for any more unhappiness. I just can't…

I wish I could go back and change my words. Why did I have to tell him everything? All I did was make him hurt, and I know better than anyone that he didn't need any more hurt in his life. But that's all I've brought him. He deserves to have happiness, not any more of the shit in my life. I don't deserve him.

"Blaine?" Kurt repeated timidly. "Please, Blaine, tell me what's wrong. Tell me what I can do," Kurt's voice wavered, his clear blue eyes growing watery. Taking a hesitant step forward, Kurt murmured, "Please, just tell me the truth, you've done it before. Remember what you always say to me? Courage. You're the courageous one, but that doesn't mean that I can't help you." You're wrong, Blaine wanted to tell him. I've never been the courageous one. Every time I said that word, it was just to try to make myself the same as you. You have always been the courageous one, not me.

Blaine knew that he hadn't been acting like himself for the last two weeks. The words rolling from his tongue had been so happy sometimes. But it was just pretend. Even that night, the night he had to explain everything to Kurt, he had acted confident. But that was just what it was; acting. He had lied through some of the parts so boldly. Truthfully, I was just numb. Ever since that night – that one moment, really – something inside of him had snapped. Something of vital importance just wasn't there. And in its place, though so well hidden, all he was left with was a gaping hole. All he was left with was numbness.