Not a City of Angels

Chapter Three

Blaine was floating. And no, not because of the events of the explosion that occurred in the exterior, but because he felt lost inside. Take any night, for example, where he would lay in solemn silence, just like this one. With the exception of the fire outside. As he lay in agony on the rooftop, unable to tell if he or Lily were alright, he could only think of his last night on Earth.

❦

"I think I should move out, Kurt."

Blaine squirmed under his duvet- rolling back and forth, achieving nothing but messing up his sheets.

"We can't go backwards!"

His hands fisted at the comforter.

"Why?"

Tears welled in Blaine's eyes. This was a bad idea. A stupid idea. Why did he ever suggest this? And how could Kurt just agree so easily?

"I'll visit Central City, with Coop. I don't know when or if I'll be back."

Blaine turned over to bury his head in his pillow. It still had the smell of Kurt's cologne – obviously from the balled up shirt that he'd put earlier on his bed, after Cooper helped to move his stuff in. He had his own apartment now, in Central City. He was all moved out and it was over. That fact only made the tears worse.

Turning his head to the side, Blaine saw the time illuminated on his digital clock: 3:48 AM. This was getting ridiculous. Yes, sometimes his lack of good mental health meant Blaine could go well into the night without sleep, but now he had no one beside him to even wake up for. What was the point?

Blaine huffed angrily at himself, turning over again to lie on his back- looking up at the blank ceiling of his new apartment, instead of the ceiling in the drafty old loft in New York City.

This is better, he thought to himself. It's clearly what Kurt wanted. He wanted you gone again. Do you not remember what happened the last time Kurt made a life by himself in New York?

Blaine hated this. He knew it was all lies. He really did. But it would also be a lie to say he hadn't believed all those things at least once in the past. So yes, he was the one to suggest calling their relationship quits- because he could see that losing Kurt now would only hopefully result in getting him back again later.

He just needed a sign- any sign- to tell him this was worth it.

As Blaine was about to get his phone out of his bedside drawer for another game of Flappy Bird, his screen lit up.

Kurt.

Blaine's heart was heavy, and he almost let out a sob when he slid across the screen to accept the call.

"Kurt," it came out soft and wispy, like saying anything else would instantly cause his fiancé to hang up on him.

"Hi, honey bee,"Kurt said so sweetly on the other end.

There was a pause and Blaine sniffed loudly, holding back the tears.

"Kurt, it's nearly 4am. It's been two weeks...I just don't get why you're calling me..."

There was no bite at all to Blaine's question- more a concern. Yet again, there was a small but comfortable lull in conversation as they processed the day's events.

"Kurt?"

"Yeah, Blaine?"

A beat.

"I really miss you."

Kurt was waiting for it. He knew from the last time he and Blaine had been separated, things went bad very quickly. He knew Blaine had a problem with loneliness- never feeling like anyone could hear him, no matter how loud he shouted.

Kurt had learnt to prevent it ever reaching the point where Blaine had to shout to be heard. Which is why he was in bed at 4am, on the phone to his fiancé whom he knew would be beating himself up over what had happened.

"I miss you too, honey."

Blaine breathed a sigh of relief on the other end and Kurt was sure he even heard a yawn, followed by Blaine settling down into his sheets.

"And Blaine?"

"Yeah?" came the sleepy reply.

"I really just called to say one thing," a deep breath in, "I love you."

❦

And now, Blaine was dying. Well, it felt like he was dying. He would never speak to Kurt again, nevertheless return his "I love you."

Hehad no way to tell how much time had passed. Everything alternated between black and blinding white. When he awoke again, everything tasted like blood and smoke.

Sorting out his thoughts was nearly impossible, but his gut told him he was in trouble. He tried to push through the murky confusion and the searing pain to figure out where he was and how to get out. He tried turning his head to look to his left, and it hurt like hell. He could make out crumbled stone, bits of glass, smoke.

What happened?