The heavy metal door slammed shut behind him. Nimble fingers worked on chains and locks. The metallic clanging and the dull thud still echoing in his ears occupied his mind for another second. There was no coming in now. Even the daylight couldn't find it in itself to break in. Not even a shadow. A soul that would somehow magically materialize once inside the confines of this mass grave in the making. A bright white toothy smile of reflection maybe...  But Cooper wasn't even in the UK right now. Or was he? He turned around to face the dimly lit bunker, with all of its huddled figures and familiar stuffy air.

He'd spent more time here in the past few weeks than in his actual bed in the Anderson manor. He didn't miss the bed. He didn't mind the stuffiness and the sleepiness that came with the lack of oxygen. "A constant supply but too many people sharing," the officer had amicably told his father when the first attack was over, and everyone was too tired to exult in their happiness and relief at standing alive in the darkness of the doorway, delicately caressed by rarefied sunrays sneaking in from the concrete staircase above, all watery eyes and shaking hands.

Now it was a routine. No one smiled or made an effort to be friendly to those who'd go missing if not days, then surely weeks or months from now. The first sunrays of temporary freedom burned their eyes and harshly bit into their too pale skin. They were all the color of terror and famine, of insufficiency and pain. Even the Andersons, who had always been so freaking rich and well-dressed and influential in the time before.

The time when everyone laid layer upon layer of expectations on them, when his father would shout at him for being a failure, for tarnishing the family name, even though nobody outside the family knew about him. When being different was something to be ashamed of within your social confines and not a thing people routinely died of. That immemorial time when his mother announced over and over again she had made a mistake by raising him so independent and proud: not every choice was okay. Liking boys was not normal or acceptable. He had to get over it because otherwise the law would reach him. She wouldn't let him get punished for her parenting mistakes. Because of course it was all on her. And they would shout and shout and cry, as he listened through the thin walls, snuggled deep into his duvet, desperately clutching it close to his slender figure.

But he couldn't think about this now. Not now when he was fighting for his survival, when he faced the terrors of darkness and cold, of hard floors and starvation that could last for hours or days. Not now when the warm hand of his father wasn't in his, when his mother's dark rich curls didn't tickle his face as she held him impossibly close, as if she thought he'd be safest if he only could sink back into her body where he had come from over 16 years ago. Not in the deafening silence of the bunker, broken only by innumerable shallow, quickened breaths and stifled tears.

He couldn't see in the dark, couldn't orient himself, find a tiny dark spot where he could settle and let his own numb tears spill in the dark. Because he couldn't think about the reason for his crying, but he couldn't not cry either. He'd allow himself that. What else was there that he could do, anyway? If they were already dead or about to die in just moments... He'd seen that gaunt, ghostly woman screaming at the guards to open the gates just a couple of weeks before. Begging and crying until she collapsed out of exhaustion, blood sheened on her lips in a narrow sheaf of light as she rolled to cry into a puddle by the doors. No opening the doors now, not for his parents, not even for the charcoaled bundle that had once been the right then steadily expiring woman's baby. No, he couldn't think about that. Not when he was expected to survive.

They had dashed into his bedroom one morning. The sun they never imagined they'd hate one day peeking thought the slits in the heavy marigold curtains he had handpicked for his room the previous summer. His mom walked up to his bed and spread her arms, desperate and shivering on the edge of the bed, tears slipping down her cheeks into reddening streams of salty pain. Blaine didn't know what was going on, not really, not back then. But he leaned into her arms and let her hold him close for minutes and hours, as long as it took. If it could deliver some comfort upon her trembling body, he'd hold her and stroke her back for days and years, he would. His father gently patted his shoulder. A wet drop splashed against his cheek pressed against his mommy's soft blouse and he raised his eyes to see his father running a finger through the slit of his eye. And that was it. The conflict that his announcing he liked boys (but nothing like young kids, just boys his age) was resolved. Cooper left a few days later.

Blaine's eyes had adjusted to the darkness. He noticed that the bunker was only half-full this time. Half compared to what? Had people gotten less and less without his noting over the last couple months. A mother was speaking melodic nothings into the ear of a young boy at his feet. He couldn't older than three, maybe four, sucking on his thumb expressionless. A girl shivered nearby, her head down, blue lips moving in a silent prayer. She would look so pretty in a turquoise dress dancing in the sun, with flowers in her hair, the way his cousins loved to while on big family gatherings in the country. He couldn't stand looking any more, eyes welling up, hands almost dripping sweat. His glance travelled up the walls, safe height to look, to avoid feelings and memories. There was a small niche right by the opposite corner. He could sit there out of view of the door. He could sit there and not think, maybe cry, only cry... He moved thought the crowded room, sneaked between misery and pain, huddled against each other, supporting the lifeless souls of the desperate and helpless and lost: the old, the young, the babies, the women. Finally, he sat down, head falling against the wall. A sigh of fatigue struggling thorough his open lips.

There was a soft sob, followed by a sharp inhale. Blaine was surprised he hadn't seen him before. The stark white shirt stood out against their dark surroundings. The boy occupied the corner of the niche across from him. He couldn't seem to get his crying under control. He didn't bother to wipe the tears off any more. They fell into his shirt unobstructed and made it cling to his chest. He must be cold. His whole body was shaking with unidentified effort. He was about his age, but like him he was alone, buried in the dark and so full of misery his body couldn't fit it in and had to leak some of it out. Blaine looked at him wide-eyed. The boy didn't seem to have noticed him. As he saw him swallow his lips into his mouth, Blaine knew the boy's teeth would be sunk into his flesh in a moment and the metallic taste would be disgusting and just make him hurt more. He placed a gentle hand on the boy's upper arm. The boy seemed shocked as he looked up.

"Hey, please, don't do that. The taste of blood is too evocative when it comes to situations such as ours." Blaine slid his hand down the boy's bicep in an attempt to be reassuring, and followed that with an awkward tilt of his mouth that could never work as a smile under the circumstances, as he withdrew his hand and let it hang by his body.

The white-shirt boy was staring at him now, his eyes big and thickly lined with lashes. Or was it just the way they caught the scarce light? He didn't say a word. But although the flow of his tears was unbroken, his shaking had subsided, Blaine was glad to notice.

"I..." the boy started, his voice made husky by all the crying and disuse. It sounded beautiful, though. Like a church bell. Hope. It sounded a little bit like hope and Blaine didn't know where all of this came from.

"Don't say anything," Blaine whispered, hoping his voice sounded warm and non-threatening enough because the boy across looked so vulnerable and sad, so fragile, he was scared he'd chase him away, or painfully scratch him with his multiple sharp edges. "Don't think about, whatever..." Blaine blinked the hurt out of his eyes and corrected himself, "...whoever it is."

The boy's eyes went impossibly larger, almost round.

"By this point in the war, I don't think anyone gets that upset about property any more," Blaine hurried to clarify flustered.

"No," the hope boy shook his head, his voice barely audible. He lowered his eyes, then looked up again. "Kurt," another word dropped through his perpetually open chapped lips, and a tongue followed to smooth over them.

"Blaine," Blaine didn't dare to tear his eyes from him, lest hope boy disappeared or his desperate thoughts came back. "Let's help each other get through this, Kurt. Agreed?"

Kurt nodded almost imperceptibly as he brought his hand forward to shake Blaine's. His hand was extremely pale and damp, probably with tears; but so was Blaine's, as they slid into one another. Kurt 's a hand was also weak almost to the point of limpness, and Blaine just now noticed how skinny and exhausted he looked.

With that, their semi-precious moments of calm were gone and the first sound of thunder shook the small bunker. A yelp tore from Kurt's lips and he squeezed the hand, still in his. The streams of tears gained new strength. Blaine rubbed his hand reassuringly, trying to keep his mind off what the sounds meant and what their strength suggested about the location devastated by the bomb.

"Don't think, remember?" he leaned in close to look Kurt in the eye as he whispered. Kurt's wet eyes looked apologetic. He tried to withdraw his hand, but Blaine didn't let go. It was too easy to physically force Kurt into submission. He seemed as if he hadn't had anything to eat in quite a while.

"I'm sorry," Blaine opened his hand immediately as the thought crossed his mind. "Please, let's hold hands, if you don't mind. Something like that can make enduring this easier for both of us?" Blaine finished questioningly unsure. He looked down at floor. "I'm sorry. I'm totally overstepping. I-"

But before he could finish, Kurt had slid his hand softly back into his own.

When Blaine looked up surprised, he met Kurt's eye, sparkling wet in the dark.

"Thank you," Kurt whispered, voice barely audible and still husky, still hope-like. Blaine sent him a small smile despite himself. Surprisingly, Kurt returned it, the tear-left streaks starting to dry on his cheeks.

Another bomb fell nearby, and Kurt squeezed his eyes shut, teeth clenched together.

Blaine waited for him to look up again.

"No blood," Kurt whispered when their eyes met again, hands clasped between them. A beautiful, watery, almost smile spread across his face and the sight of it took Blaine away from this place and all it's continuous suffering and into a different magical place, where Kurt could actually smile and make the world better for it. Blaine returned the smile to the best of his ability: he seriously considered he must have forgotten how to since the beginning of that endlessly crushing and unfair war.

"No blood," he agreed.

They spend the time in-between thunders looking into each other's eyes and trying to keep their focus on helping each other get through this—whatever it meant for each one of them—rather than concentrating on their own personal suffering. As the bombs grew more distant Kurt seemed to relax a little bit. Whatever damage was done, was already done. There was no point to prayers and hopes any more. They kept their position on the hard, cold floor, their faces close and their hands clasped together. The bombs weren't as loud any more, and Kurt's eyes started drooping. Until they went completely shut. Blaine raised a gentle hand to run along Kurt's upper arm. Kurt sleepily opened his eyes, sweet obliviousness to what was going on swimming in them. He looked so innocent and cute. Blaine knew it would take a while before they were allowed to leave.

"You should try and get some sleep. You look exhausted."

Kurt's eyes opened widely again as memories flew back.

"No, I-"

"Come on."

Kurt looked unconvinced.

"You can use my legs as a pillow, or you can snuggle close and sleep on my shoulder. I don't mind," Blaine shrugged. "I think the worst part is over anyway," he added. "We need to stay strong, you know. Somebody has to make it through the war." Blaine winked at him. Kurt simply looked on confused.

"Kurt?"

Kurt shook his head and started to lower it against Blaine's outstretched legs in their secluded corner. Blaine wondered if he acquiesced just because he felt too weak to argue. Poor Kurt. What's happened to him, he wondered.

"You know, I’m not sure if I really care if I'll make it through the war alive any more," Blaine didn’t know if he'd heard him correctly. Kurt's words were slurred with sleep and just barely audible like everything else he'd said. But Blaine couldn't think about that, either: the meaning of survival and questioning his desire to live or wondering about the horrors in the life of his new friend... None of these were particularly healthy thoughts. So he concentrated on the calm sleeping figure on his lap, on the here and now, the sounds of explosions and the crackling of the fires swallowing the world he once thought he knew.

Indeed, Blaine didn't mind the discomfort, the adaptation to a life of less exuberance, and even the insufficiencies he'd never had to experience before. These things were all brand new, but none of them were the end of the world, unless you have to go without water and food for too long. But the booming sounds and the crashes of destruction that flew in from the world outside. The screams of death, the blaring red flashes of it. He minded those. He minded those very much.

But he couldn't think about those either. So he ran a hand through Kurt's slightly greasy, but still soft, hair and let his thoughts fly towards the world where Kurt is allowed to smile all the time.

That was the last thing he remembered before he heard the crack of the heavy bunker door getting open to the outside world of ruin and it's cruel burning sun once more. Kurt stirred against his legs, nose buried in the fabric of his pants, still clutching his hand.