“What?” Blaine coughed, accidentally spitting out some of his orange juice. His father sat down across the table from him, pulling off his glasses as he did so. “You’re kidding me, right?”

Mr. Anderson sighed and leaned forward. He took in his son’s features: the crescent-shaped bags under his eyes, the tangled mess of curls that he hadn’t even bothered to tame. He hesitated.

“Blaine, it’s just one appointment—”

“It’s because of him, isn’t it?” Blaine spat, turning his cold glare towards his father.

“I just think it would be prudent to take you, Blaine. You’ve changed. You’ve stopped caring about school and your grades, some days you don’t sleep at all and other days you sleep for hours—”

“I’ve only changed because nobody fucking believes me—”

“Language!” Mr. Anderson remarked loudly. The sound of glass breaking filled the room. Both Blaine and his father turned around to see a broken mirror on the floor. “Lillian?” Mr. Anderson called out into the hall.

“Ethan—” She said, running into the room with a pile of hand mirrors in her arms. “They’re back—they’re watching—” She threw all of them down to the floor, the panic rising in her voice as she rushed back out of sight.

Mr. Anderson sighed and shot Blaine a weary look. “This conversation isn’t over.” And with that, he stood up and followed his wife, being careful not to step on the broken shards of glass on the floor.

He passed the coffee cup across the table. The hazel eyes peeked up and just as quickly returned their gaze to the floor.

“Why’d you ask me if I was –”

“I just—” Blaine hesitated. “If I told you, you’d think I’m crazy.”

“Hate to break it to you buddy, but given the circumstances I just found you in,” he gave Blaine a comforting smile, “I doubt anything else could possibly surprise me.” Blaine managed a small smile.

“Why did you stop for me…?” Blaine asked, his eyes daring to look up for the slightest moment before looking back down. Even in that second’s worth of contact, the blue eyes had pierced right through him — just as he knew they would; just as he remembered it. Before the man across the table could answer however, he continued. “You could have kept walking, Ku—” Blaine gasped, slapping his hand to his mouth, trying to stop himself.

The boy across the table leaned forward, his brows furrowed together. “How—” It seemed like his mouth could not form the proper shapes. Blaine thought he saw the blue in those eyes darken with suspicion as the boy’s mouth hung agape. “How do you know my name?” He finally managed to say.

Blaine could feel the blood rushing to his ears; could feel the heat that was emanating from his face. “I just—” He stammered. “I don’t — I’m sorry for the bother—” He said quickly and got up, not bothering to pick up the coffee that the boy had given him.

Without looking back, he ran away from the ocean-side coffee shop, not listening to the yells of protest behind him. The pounding in his heart was echoing loudly in his ears and all he could think was to get away — he’d already said too much.

But he was at a disadvantage. He had not slept in more than 72 hours and the lids of his eyes began to weigh down on him, paying no heed to his feeble attempts to blink rapidly in order to stay conscious. And while the blinking was proving only partly successful, it did not help his body. He was drained of any energy. Walking himself to his thinking place had already taken everything out of him. No food and no sleep had taken its toll on him — not that he minded. After all, he hadn’t planned to ever need those things again…and he also hadn’t planned on being interrupted.

He felt a numbness taking over his legs and the heaviness of his lids finally sinking. His body was quickly giving in to his brain’s pleas to sleep. With the last slivers of vision that his lids allowed him, he looked both ways across the road and urged himself forward. But it was no use; he was like a marionette with limbs of plush and no support to carry himself. And even though he kept screaming at his legs to keep running, he’d lost all control. The darkness engulfed him and he collapsed.

The scene faded into swirls of white and black. When Blaine opened his eyes again he was sitting on a swing next to the same boy.

“Where are we?” The words fell from his lips without even thinking.

“This is your favorite place, isn’t it? You brought me here.” The boy said softly, sharing a smile.

“What’s your name?” Blaine asked, swinging slowly as he took in his surroundings. They were in a small playground – abandoned by the looks of it – and he could smell the ocean. Most of the scenery was still quite hazy, as if materializing from a cloud of smoke.

“Kurt,” he replied, extending his hand. “Kurt Hummel.”

Blaine took his hand, noting as he did so, that they were soft. He felt his stomach do a funny flip and he pulled away quickly. “Blaine Anderson,” he mumbled.

His eyes roamed the landscape for a moment. He felt as though his mind was working agonizingly slowly – he could feel himself familiar with his surroundings and Kurt and yet could not quite place his finger on it. He closed his eyes and concentrated.

The first thing he acknowledged was the sound of the ocean. It was as if he had not quite registered it before. They must be close. He turned to look at the source of the sound as the rest of his surroundings materialized. They were on a cliff. The sound of waves crashing into the hillside suddenly became amplified as he took note of it.

He turned to look at Kurt once more and saw the blue eyes staring kindly back. The gears in his mind shifted.

“You’re that boy from before.” Blaine said matter-of-factly.

Kurt only grinned in response.

“Why did I bring you here?”

“Well, you said this is the place you like to come to think. Thought it could get my mind off of Karofsky.” Kurt said, turning his eyes to the ground.

“Who’s that?” Blaine asked, interested.

“That jock I told you about, the one who’s been bullying me for being gay.”

“You’re g-gay?” Blaine stammered, a blush rising to his cheeks against his better judgment.

Kurt looked up at him. “Yeah, is that a problem?”

“No!” He said quickly, the heat quickly spreading across his face. “N-no, I am too!” He could feel his heart pounding and he gripped the chains of the swing more tightly, trying to regain his composure. Why was he so flustered? Kurt simply smiled.

“Come on,” Kurt said, standing up. “Let’s sit by the edge.” He extended his hand. Blaine looked up, the hazel clashing with the blue, causing his stomach to do a back-flip once more. Slowly, he reached out and grasped his hand. Upon contact, a wave of electricity shot through him. His eyes widened, feeling an explosion of warmth crowding his stomach. He could feel Kurt’s soft skin against his – tangible and real. And just as quickly as the feeling had hit him, it was gone.

Blaine sat up with his heart pounding in his ears and his hand still extended in mid-air.

Mr. Anderson walked back into the dining room, his tie loosened and sleeves rolled up. “Couldn’t sweep that up while I took care of her, could you?” He shot his son a look as he stepped into the kitchen and grabbed the broom next to the fridge.

“I’m sorry, I was under the impression that the mentally-ill couldn’t function properly.” Blaine said bitingly.

“I never said you were mentally-ill, Blaine—”

“Then why the hell do I have an appointment with the psychiatrist, Dad? If it was my emotional health you were worried about you’d be taking me to a therapist or a psychologist.” He didn’t bother to hide his disdain.

“Look, I just think that you’re starting to confuse yourself—”

“He’s real, Dad. I know he is. I’m not confusing anything, what don’t you understand about that?”

“This is exactly what I’m talking about! You’ve lost yourself, Blaine. You can’t tell what’s real and what’s not anymore. Some person you made up in your head has completely turned your life upside down!” Mr. Anderson yelled, sweeping the shards of glass aggressively into the dustpan.

“Oh, so that’s what this is about – you think I’m like Mom?” Blaine said, his voice barely audible.

“No, I didn’t say that either. But these things are genetic and I think it wouldn’t hurt to check—”

Blaine stood up and shot his father a dark glare. “I’m not crazy,” he said, his voice strong, cold and clear. He downed the last bit of orange juice in his cup and shoved past his father without saying another word.