Title: Like Monsters

Author: Something Witty Goes Here

Rating: T for suicide, funerals, depression, and brief homophobic language.

Disclaimer: I own neither Glee, nor Wintergirls, nor "Monsters." I wish I did, though. Because then Kurt and Blaine would have hot and heavy make out sessions every episode, Laurie Halse Anderson would be writing novels for me daily, and, well, I don't know what I would do with the song, because I already play it millions of times per day.

A/N: I thought it would be fun to try out this whole format above^. Lots of other writers here do it, and it seemed deck. It is. Relating to the story, I don't know why I was compelled to write this. Nothing else to say, really. Except for that Kurt and Blaine are, officially, IN LOVE. What else? If you feel compelled to review, please do so. I labored over this in terms of i-wrote-this-like-last-month-and-spent-all-this-time-rewriting-and-editing-it so any sort of feedback is appreciated and wanted. Oh, and I have a prequel a-cookin', so if the demand is there I will possibly write and publish it. Please, however, note the possible. Sometimes I forget/loseinterestand/orinspiration. And just to clarify- interest means reviews. I appreciate all of the favorites, (no, really you have no idea,) but if you want more, please tell me!

Okay, okay, you can quit glaring at me. Sheesh. I'm sorry I ramble. There's no need to bitch and whine about it. On with the story, yes? Enjoy.

And hey, transform all others

When awful people they surround you

Well ain't they just like monsters

They come to feed on me

Giant little animals to feed

Though to say we got much hope

If I am lost it's only for a little while

-"Monsters" by Band of Horses

...

"'They eat us slowly, she says, so we can feel their sharp teeth.'"

-Wintergirls, by Laurie Halse Anderson

Life colors ceramic. Life billows gracefully through sea from rivers and tributaries. Life drizzles lazily across gleaming silver.

Life leaves him, scarlet life slowly deserting the body that needs it.

No one wishes to do the eulogy, at first. Will looks around, pleading, but one by one each student drops their gaze. His eyes finally rest on the young man in the corner of the choir room, the one with usually tidy black curls unkept and unruly, and eyes rimmed red, and either side of his sweater wrapped tightly around his lean body.

"Blaine?" Will asks softly.

The there is a short, pregnant pause, then-

"Okay."

Life had supported a happy heart, full of wonder and love for a boy that made life flood his porcelain cheeks.

Blaine smooths gel into his hair for the first time since he left. It's the first time, it seems, like there is a routine, some small aspect of normal life slowly being retained. A knock on the door interrupts this ritual, and Rachel's head is peeking through the door and telling him, "Blaine, it's starting. Ready?"

He takes a deep breath.

Life attempts to guide trembling fingers to write, but can only form the words;

B-

I love you.

The minister steps down from the podium, saying, "And now, one of Kurt's friends, Blaine Anderson, will say a few words in remembrance of him."

He walks to the podium, a notecard crumpled in his palm, and faces his audience in their sea of navy blues and charcoals and blacks. Blaine regards the microphone, with its black mesh criss-crossing on the speaker. This object, usually so comforting in its memories of singing on a brightly lit stage, now looms dangerously in his eyes.

Blaine swallows. Licks his lips and tries to remember how to read.

Life pumps furiously and reminds him that he still breathes. A final plea to stay.

"Kurt told me once that depression, for him, was like a monster. A monster that ate him slowly, so that he could feel each incisor sink into his skin. He said that trying to get through each day was like trying to break free of a giant animal's jaw, but the only thing that could lessen the pressure was to think about what he loved. Music. Broadway. Fashion. His friends and family.

"I want to remember him that way. I want to think of how his eyes lit up when he saw there was a sale at Alexander McQueen. I want to remember his laugh, so happy and full of life, when he was told something funny. I can still see the passion in his eyes when he sang.

"I don't want to remember the bruises on his back from being pushed into lockers, or the tears sliding down his cheeks when he told me about the awful thing someone said to him that day."

Blaine wipes away moisture that suddenly appeared in his eyes, and takes a shuddering breath as he reads his final paragraph. He hadn't expected it to be so hard, hadn't expected his name to burn like fire and leave his chest a barren, smoldering wasteland.

"In some ways, I don't blame him for leaving. I wouldn't want to live with those monsters either." Blaine tears his eyes from the notecard. He addresses the casket, the air, the universe, and speaks softly. "I love you, Kurt. I always will."

He backs up, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles. Then, like wildfire, a bulky boy's words to his friend reach his ears: "Believe this bullshit? They even have the balls to talk about the fag's gayness in a church."

It is routine. Takes off his clothes. Runs a bath. From downstairs, everything is normal. Except, when he steps into the ceramic tub, he brings a box of razors with him.

The people in the crowd shift in their seats nervously, uncomfortably. The minister, pretending the outburst did not occur, once again takes his place on the podium for another reading.

And, with an outside force seemingly compelling Blaine's feet to walk to the large boy's aisle, he stares at him. He stares at the boy who, when he forced his mouth onto Kurt's delicate lips, sunk the first canines into Kurt's skin. The boy looks up at Blaine, scowling into his eyes. It is then when Blaine swings a closed fist.

Life drips sleepily from shining blades. Life billows into warm bathwater from veins and capillaries. Life colors the porcelain bath.

Life leaves him, scarlet life slowly deserting the body that didn't want it.

fin