A/N: Had to write this. Note that it dives wholeheartedly into the angst, so if you're looking for fluff, please look elsewhere. The title comes from Skyfall, Adele's new James Bond theme, which was on repeat the whole time I was writing this. The tone of the song, and even the lyrics, are oddly fitting for this situation in my mind.

This isn't reflective of where I think canon is going, by the way. I've been given a pit of angst—this fic is me wallowing in it.

WARNING: There is some violent imagery in this fic.

P.S; I am now on tumblr! My url is my username.


It's such a quiet thing, to fall.

There's no dramatic swell. No scare chord, no seedy lighting. Crossing the line is as easy as crossing a line—the threshold between inside and outside, the doorway to an unfamiliar building.

You cross the line and that's it. You could turn around, but the fact remains. The line has been crossed. Crossing back over doesn't change that. You did it. You went there.

It was just that easy.

Why is the question on everyone's lips, and Blaine would tell them if he knew which answer they wanted.

Because. Because he was lonely. Because he was sad, and tired, and desperate, and no one seemed to notice or care. Because sometimes, not all the time, but more and more lately, talking to Kurt felt like talking to a television—speaking to something that will never really reply, that always talks at you but never to you.

Because it felt like he was dying. It felt… important. More important than Kurt? No, never, not anything, not now, not ever. Important is the wrong word. It felt…

Urgent. Urgent is better. Like a wound in need of stitches. Only instead of leaking out, Blaine's wound sucked everything in, a Kurt-shaped vacuum in his center. He tried to fill it with everything he could and still it hungered, demanded more, like some ancient god demanding sacrifice, threatening to devour him unless he fed it someone else.

Because he could. Because he was there. Because he wasn't there. Because, because, because. There are a thousand reasons, but no excuses.

They all want to know why, but why doesn't matter. There is no excuse for what he did. And now he has to live with it. With what he did, and what he is.

It was simple. Mundane. Almost nice, for a moment.

It makes sense, really. If you close your eyes, falling is almost like flying.

Right up until the end.


Sometimes he dreams about Sadie Hawkins.

He lies fetal on the ground, curled up to protect his head, yet he can see everything that happens. He looks up at the boys who beat, kick, punch, bash, and break him, and he wonders. Would they ever cheat on their girlfriends? Would they disregard their lover as they disregard Blaine? Or would they blanch at the thought? Would even these people think he was scum?

He's always thought about good and evil in fairly absolute terms, but he can't do that anymore. There are so many different kinds of evil. The boy who kicks him in the ribs might wake up tomorrow and help an old lady across the street. The boy stomping at his head might volunteer at a homeless shelter. The boy who breaks his leg with a baseball bat might give to charity. All three of them might be faithful and dependable spouses as long as they live.

The boys who nearly killed him could easily go their graves claiming that they have never hurt someone the way Blaine has.

Good and evil are far more complicated than simple categories to be sorted into. They apply not to people, but to actions, choices, and thoughts. Good and evil are what you do, not what you are.

And all it takes is a single choice. A single act on the wrong side, and someone is ruined for years. Maybe even for life.

It took one night to put Blaine in the hospital for a month and forever change his outlook on life.

It took one night to put Kurt in tears and forever change his outlook on love.

Before, when Blaine would suffer the slings and arrows of life, he would soothe his wounds by telling himself he was better than his tormentors.

Now he knows that isn't true. Everything that was inside of them is inside of him. He can do just as much damage. He can cause just as much pain. All he has to do is choose.

Sometimes, he dreams about Sadie Hawkins. He looks up at the boys who bash him, and every single face is his own.

And then he watches, almost detached, as he savagely beats himself to death.


The end comes just as quietly as the fall. A feather that gently drifts down and crushes him to pulp.

'I can't.'

A text. That's all he gets. Two words on a text message. He can't exactly claim that he deserves more.

'I can't.' I can't what?

I can't do this. I can't move past this. I can't stand even thinking about you.

It could mean any or all of those things. Or it could simply be an answer. A response to his pleas for forgiveness. The meaning is ambiguous, but the intent is clear.

I can't, so we can't.

It comes in the middle of glee club, and as he reads it, he wonders if anyone can see his pureed heart seeping through his skin.

When he looks up, he isn't surprised. No one is even looking at him. Of course they aren't. Why should they?

He made no sound as he stepped off the cloud. He screamed not once during the plunge. He hit the ground without a thud, breaking every bone in his body without even the faintest crack.

And now he will lie where he has landed and silently bleed to death, because he'd rather do that than call attention to himself.

"Blaine?"

He blinks. It's Sam. Of course it's Sam. Fucking Sam.

"Blaine, what's wrong?"

And suddenly every eye in the room is on him. Watching. Waiting. He hates it. He hates them. But he hates no one more than he hates himself.

"It's over," he says.

And there is the shockwave. There is the impact that shatters the room, breaks open the floor to reveal a pit with no bottom, eager to swallow him whole. Voices erupt from all sides—some sympathetic, some condemnatory, all useless white noise. Sam's hand burns like acid on his skin, his stomach crumples and drops like an unwanted love note. His eyes blur, his chest heaves, and it finally sinks in. This hell, this horror, this wretched new reality he has created for himself… with those two words, it all becomes real.

It's such a quiet thing, to fall.

But it is far more terrible to admit it.