Blaine Anderson came out when he was thirteen years old.

It was a cold February day, the snow outside not quite melted slush that felt horrible against his shoes. Blaine was in the living room, staring at the old grandfather clock and counting the ticks and the tocks. Time seemed to pass by much too quickly for his liking.

Tick. Tock. His parents pulled up in the driveway, his mother snapping at his father to help her take in the groceries.

Tick. Tock. The door opens, and with it comes a breeze as cold as his father's eyes.

Tick. Tock. His mother stares at him for a second, stares at his terrified expression, then looks away and walks towards the kitchen to put away groceries.

Tick. Tock. His father follows, mumbling something about needing a drink to get away from 'this fucking life.'

Tick. Tock. Blaine's face crumples, his breathing erratic. How were these people supposed to love him for who he was if they didn't love him for who he pretended to be in the first place?

Tick. Tock. Blaine braces himself, straightening his posture and marching into the kitchen. He was still a man, just a gay one.

Tick. Tock. His parents don't even look up as he sits down at the table.

Tick. Tock. Blaine swallows a lump in his throat, then blurts, “Mom, dad, I'm gay.”

And time seemed to stop. Blaine's parents were frozen, almost comically so. But still, the grandfather clock ticked and tocked.

Tick. Tock. “Go to your room. I will not have a fag like you dirtying my kitchen table.” His mother's voice was lifeless, but firm. There was no underlying sympathy.

Tick. Tock. Blaine sobbed into his pillow for hours that night, the ticks and tocks of the clock still repeating in his mind.

Blaine would in later years buy a pocket watch out of vengeance. He did not know that, while checking it one day, his life would be changed for the better.