A/N: Well, haven't written anything like this for awhile. I just started writing and this... whatever this is came out. Warning for character death.
Also, I am perfectly aware the chronology is not perfectly linear.
When Blaine pictured the future in high school, he always imagined Kurt. He imagined coming home after a day of work to Kurt and, if he was lucky, a son or daughter too. Course, he'd never tell anyone this. He'd just whisper always between kisses with Kurt. He'd breathe the word on his skin. And Kurt would agree with him and whisper it back. Always.
When Kurt pictured the future in high school, he always imagined Broadway. He imagined staring out into the crowd, people applauding him and, if he was lucky, a standing ovation. Course, he'd never tell anyone this. He'd just whisper always back to Blaine. He felt the word on his skin. And he'd pretend to agree. Always.
It's funny how things work out sometimes isn't it? The word. Always. To Blaine it was the most precious word. A promise in itself. To be together always. To always be kissing Kurt's skin and no one else's. To Kurt, it was more a promise of love. He would always love Blaine, he knew that. Something in him would. But that's all the word meant to him. He never expected a fairytale ending for the two.
Kurt was right though. Marrying "highschool sweethearts". It doesn't happen often. In fact, all the couples at McKinley would scoff at their high school selves. Thinking that their love was forever. Rachel and Finn went their seperate ways after high school. Tina never married, and Mike dated a string of guys and girls but nothing serious. Santana met her future wife in her third year of college. Brittany kissed Artie goodbye slowly and sweetly at the airport before leaving to tour the world through dance. She'd never see him again. He'd die later that day. And she would learn to move on.
Puck, not to anyone surprise, married someone fifteen years his senior and Lauren went on to become a succesful wrestler and future sports commentator. Quinn wasn't heard from after high school, though Rachel often gets postcards from her from exoctic places around the world. Sam bumped (quite literally) into his future on an Ohio street when he was 27. Oh, and Mercedes? Mercedes ran into Matt Rutherford in a bar one night, long after collage. They smiled, they caught up, they hooked up. Nothing became of it. She met her husband that night too though. He just wasn't the man she went home with at first. She took some convincing from him.
Yes, they would all scoff at their high school selves. Forever never lasts. There's always an end.
When Kurt and Blaine broke up, both of them felt it. Kurt felt his heart torn apart but he had promised himself. Nothing would distract him. He pulled Blaine in, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips, letting them linger there for a moment too long.
"Maybe in another life," he had whispered against the other, letting Blaine's hand slip from his own for the last time, disappearing into the crowd of people.
People told Blaine to move on. They told him how they understood how he felt. They'd all gone through broken hearts. But this wasn't just a broken heart. His heart had been shredded to pieces and yes, it could be put back together.
But it would never be whole. His life would never be whole. The future he imagined. All those kisses. Always, he had said. Always.
Kurt got his future in Broadway. He never regretted a moment of it. Playing Fiyero was a true dream. Every night, every preformance, he'd scan the audience for Blaine. He secretly hoped he would show up just once. But he could never see him.
Blaine went to see Kurt in Wicked five times. He knew the theatre. He knew where to get seat so Kurt couldn't see him. And he did. He cried, watching him. The boy that was supposed to be his entire future, living out his dream. Kurt got his wish, but he never did.
Blaine Anderson died at the age of thirty five. He'd had a handful of boyfriends since highschool, but none had lasted longer than six months. He couldn't picture anything with them. He became to believe that there really is only one person for everyone.
He never saw the other car coming. It crashed into the side of his car, shards of metal and glass flying everywhere. His body was thrown around in his seat, the belt holding him as stable as one could possibly be. Hands tightened around steering wheel, his knuckles turning white. His stomach churned as he felt himself jerk forward and then his body slammed into the door and the movement stopped. He was still breathing, but even he knew those were his last breaths.
When Kurt glanced down to check his messages on his phone he never expected to look up to see a car in front of him. His foot slammed down onto the breaks but it was too late. The metal of the other car crumbled under the force of his. His body whipped forward and he gasped, feeling it hit the steering wheel like a punch in the stomach.
His car stopped moving long before the other and he saw it slide. He wanted to get out, to run to the other car but he couldn't, wouldn't move. Nothing would move.
Bystanders ran to him and to Blaine. They whipped out their phones and 911 calls were made. Someone was speaking but he couldn't hear them. His eyes were wide, with one hand still clutching the steering wheel and the other clutching his stomach as he regained his breath.
A man, around their age, wrapped a shaking hand around Blaine's and found his eyes. The soft blue ones found the hazel ones and he smiled. It was a nice smile, Blaine noticed. He tried to say something but all that came out was coughing, causing him to gasp in pain. The man shook his head and gave his hand a gentle squeeze, pressing his other hand against the deep gash in Blaine's leg to stop it from bleeding, "you'll be ok."
Blaine shook his head, grasping the hand firmly. Tears welled up in his eyes as he saw the blood seep through the man's hand. He returned his smiling and with a shaking gasp, he uttered the two words he always said
Kurt would later sit into the hospital, his face still pale and the images still replaying through his head. The nurses would come in and give him a sad smile. The cops would come in to question them and he would grab one of their arm's before they left.
"Please. I need to know. Wha- who- what was their name?"
"Anderson," they had responded, "Blaine Anderson"
The man had frozen on the bed, turning over onto his side hot fresh tears rolling down his cheeks. It couldn't be his Blaine, could it?
"NO," he had screamed into his pillow but not loud enough for anyone to hear him. He'd brought his legs up to his chest and buried his face against them.
"Always Blaine," he'd whispered softly, "always."
Kurt Hummel died at the age of thirty six. He'd never had a solid boyfriend since highschool, instead choosing to have a string of guys on call for whenever he needed them. He never loved any of them.
He was alone and in his prison cell. The bed sheets he'd tied together tightened around his neck and, aside from an involunterary jerk and gasp, he didn't fight against them. With a shuddering breath his body fell limp against the wall, the sheets holding his weight surprisingly well.
They'd find his body the next day, the guard sighing sadly as he saw him and alerted others. Just another suicide. They'd see his bloodied finger from scratching it himself raw, the skin off and the single word on the wall written in the blood, always.
That's the thing about fairytale endings. Something always goes wrong.