Carry You Home.
A Klaine Fanfiction.

Prologue.

Blue.

When he walked the hallways that week, it wasn't with his usual flare and poise. It lacked the confidence that made it appear as if he was gliding along the linoleum floors, the grace with which he would open his locker, sit in his desk, dance at rehearsal. That week he tried to blend in. That week, he didn't want to be seen. Because that week, it was bringing him down.

Admitting to himself that he was gay wasn't easy at first - although some would argue he was the walking, talking stereotype for a homosexual. But he didn't hate himself for being who he was; he embraced it. He was just scared of what people would think, of what people would say. He'd always been picked on, though, he was used to that side of things. He didn't think they'd do anything worse than they already were. And they didn't.
Until Dave Karofsky.

Red.

He'd been harassing him for weeks. Maybe he'd been wrong to embrace himself. It clearly wasn't doing him any favours. He thought about this in the car ride home from school that day, right up until he pulled into his driveway. His father was still at work, he had nobody to intercept him, and so he worked on auto pilot. He stepped out of the car, the key still in the ignition, leaving the door open wide. Steady steps down the patio and into the hall. Turn off into the kitchen, open the drawer, pocket what was needed, close. En route the bathroom. The medicine cabinet was full with rows of medication, and he didn't know which plastic tubes his hands found first, but they would do. And then down the stairs to the basement; his bedroom. He'd replaced his curtains with blackouts a while back, and with the lights shut off, it was practically dark. Only his lava lamp cast out an eerie red glow across his bed sheets, which he now found himself sitting on cross-legged, suddenly bare of any clothes but an oversized grey t-shirt and underwear. The knife he had previously pocketed lay beside him, the blade glinting as the faint light hit it's surface; it was as if it was winking at him. He picked up the pills laying in front of him bottle by bottle, and carefully removed the lids and tipped the contents onto the pillowcase. He then turned his attention back to the knife; wondering if the pain of what he was about to do would even register in comparison to what he had been feeling these few months. He hoped it would be over quickly.

It was a slow motion, the tip of the blade piercing the skin and the rest sinking in after it, and then dragging it down his wrist. And repeat. The pain didn't surmount to much, really. It was almost peaceful. As his head began to grow dizzy, and the streaks of red were no longer just trickling onto the white sheets, but pouring, he scooped up a handful of pills.

White.

He didn't know if this was real or not, but there was that feeling of falling back into the white, into the crisp, cool white and drowning in it, his eyelids fluttering shut, engulfing him in a darkness so different from that of the room and world he was leaving. He was both floating and falling, soaring and sinking, as in turn each of his limbs went numb and disappeared, evaporated, repelled away from him, he was as light as air, he was the nothingness he so craved to feel, and there was this light, and he wanted so badly to reach it, it appeared warm and familiar and comfortable, new and empty and free, but what was pulling him back into the darkness? He didn't want to go there. He didn't want the cold anymore. How could something be pulling him, he was nothing, he didn't exist, he was free, so how could there be a grip, and what were those noises, and the light was going out, further and further away from him…

He was definitely descending now, it was gravity, gravity was real again, weight and matter and space and time were real again, he could feel every fibre of his being and every burst of pain, every bad memory crushing his chest, blocking his airways, seeping through his blood and tears. There was motion, controlled motion, he could open his eyes if he wanted, but his head was too heavy, he didn't want to see where he was headed. Was this hell? Was it true, what they said? Being gay meant you were going to hell?

Black.

Hell would have been preferable. At least he'd feel something.