fics that will never be finished: abandoned WIPs
Or, a post 3.05 friendship fic that I lost inspiration for.
Dumping abandoned WIPs here, because someone should enjoy them even though I'm never going to finish them.
1. Blaine and Rachel discuss losing their virginity post-305. Puck and Santana intervene.
“You’re glowing.”
His costar stopped applying blush, looking over at him curiously. “Excuse me?”
He grinned. “You. You’re glowing.”
Rachel rolled her eyes at him, and got back to putting her makeup on. “And what, Blaine Anderson, does the fact that I’m glowing mean, exactly?”
“You had sex with Finn.” He teased her gently.
She dropped the makeup brush like it was poison. “How do you know?” She squealed, her face cherry red.
He laughed. “Ha! I knew it.”
She glowered. “Like you’re one to talk! I know for a fact that Kurt didn’t home last night and neither of you were at the after party! What were you two doing then, mister?”
He blushed. “I-you have no evidence that we did anything other than cuddle.”
Rachel pouted at him. “I-okay, fine. We had sex. Are you happy?”
Blaine giggled. “Was it good?”
“It was magical.” Rachel sighed happily. “I’m so happy I waited as long as I did. It felt right, you know?” She looked back into the mirror, darkening her eyebrows with care. “What about you and Kurt? Did you two…you know, lose the v-card?”
Blaine looked into the mirror skeptically, biting his lips. “Define virginity.”
Rachel hit him with her hairbrush. “Blaine!”
“What? We’re gay! It’s not that easy to define!”
“Here, I’ll make it easy for you, Blanderson: is your ass sore from where Hummel pounded into it like the fist of an angry God? If so, then you’re probably not a virgin anymore, sorry.”
Blaine whipped around as fast as he could, his face crimson. “Santana! When did you get here?”
The devil in a red dress rolled her eyes. “Oh, please, I can smell sex like a shark can smell blood. There was a distinct lack of virgin smell coming from this room, and I wanted to make sure you two weren’t dead. Instead, it turns out you just finally had sex. I’d offer you my congratulations, but that would require me thinking about you losing your virginity, and honestly, I don’t want to throw up while wearing this dress.”
“I agree; that dress is flawless. Though, please don’t ever think about me having sex ever again.”
Santana merely smiled. “That’s an awfully nice hickey Kurt left you, stud. Always knew he was a biter. Maybe if you’re lucky, the audience will think Maria gave it to you.”
Blaine squealed and turned back to the mirror, hastily examining his neck for any discoloration; Rachel frowned.
“You’re so mean. And for the record, Finn is not a sack of potatoes in bed. He was a perfect gentleman.”
“Huh. That’s funny, I’ve always pictured sex with Finn would be like having sex with a sack of potatoes.” Puck laughed, and then seemed to realize what he said. “Not that’s I’ve ever pictured having sex with Finn. Ever.”
Rachel whirled. “When did you get here?”
Puck grinned. “I heard the words ‘sex’ and ‘ass’ and knew this was somewhere I needed to be.”
“…You were in the other room.”
Puck’s grin widened. “Like I said: sex and ass. They were calling to me.” He offered Rachel a high-five. “Congratulations on losing the v-card, my little Jewish-American princess. Always thought I’d be the one to take that from you, but I guess I gotta let Finn win sometimes.”
Rachel hesitated before returning the five.
--
end
2. Blaine and Sugar angst pre-Hearts.
The day after Shelby Cocoran leaves Lima for good this time (or so she says: she said that before, too, and look how well that turned out) Sugar Motta confronts Blaine Anderson at his locker, and begs him to teach her how to sing.
“You are the best singer in Glee Club.” She tells him, like it’s a fact and her opinion is law. “You are even better than Rachel Berry.”
“That’s debatable.” He says diplomatically, shoving a history book back inside his locker. “And don’t ever let her hear you say that.”
She ignores him. “Please, you’ve got to teach him how to sing!”
His first thought is that her eyes are magnificently large and bright when she is trying her hardest to get her way.
His second thought is, God, I am so lonely.
But because he is (friendless) a gentleman, he smiles at her warmly. “I’ll teach you what I can. Come by my house after school, and we’ll go through the scales.”
She doesn’t hug him, but she smiles at him like maybe she wants to.
--
Mr. Schue thinks that Sugar Motta just didn’t feel like coming to Glee Club, in the time between the Troubletone’s loss at Sectionals and returning to school after winter break.
What he doesn’t know is how she spent every day after school in Blaine Anderson’s living room, singing scales and learning how to control her pitch, because she knows if Mr. Schue kicks her out of Glee Club a second time, there will be no going back.
--
Blaine claps for her every time.
--
The Sugar Shack is all Sugar’s idea, of course. She gets the idea while sitting on Blaine’s bed, watching him paint her toenails and listening as he regales her the tale of how he spent last Valentine’s day, about wooing the wrong boy and how he’s still not allowed in the Gap, about coffee orders and When Harry Met Sally, about the Lonely Hearts Club.
(Here is a secret: Kurt and Blaine are her favorites. Santana and Brittany are like her cool older sisters, but Kurt and Blaine act like she’s their friend, like they actually enjoy spending time with her, and she can’t get enough of it.)
So she gets ideas, because like Blaine Valentine’s Day is her favorite holiday, too, and her daddy will basically do anything for her, all she has to do is ask. So she starts planning things, in her mind, about a dance and renting out Breadstix and good music and gifts and people acting like they like her. It is the best idea.
She wonders if Blaine thinks so, and asks him “How do you think New Directions would feel if I threw a Valentine’s Day party and then invited all of them?”
What she means is: do you think they would want to be my friend, if I spend enough money on them?
(Blaine knows the answer to that question, too. It’s in the money his father donated to the Warblers, how he was their darling, Blaine and the Pips, and those guys are his friends, Kurt.
Up until the moment he decided he could be happier somewhere else, and then they let Sebastian throw rock salt in his eye. Not a single damn one of them texted him to see how he was after his surgery, and fuck, he’s not going to cry, not while his eye is still hurt.)
What he says is: “I think they would love that, Sugar. Here, I’ll help.”
--
It’s not that he doesn’t think about getting Kurt a Valentine’s day gift. Of course he does. There are a dozen roses and a bracelet that says courage on his nightstand as we speak.
He just doesn’t think to send anything to Kurt at school. Why would he? He’s a little preoccupied at the moment.
A thousand paper hearts aren’t made by themselves, you know. He said he’d help.
(He has to cut them out with safety scissors, the kind they give small children, because his parents and his doctors don’t exactly trust his eye-coordination at the moment.)
--
A secret admirer? Really?
Why would he ever want to keep how he feels about Kurt a secret?
--
end
3. Fight Club fic. Glee clubs are now fight clubs.
Everything hurts.
It’s been two months, but he’s still in the hospital, and everything still fucking hurts. He thought at some point the pain was supposed to go away, or maybe you were supposed to get used to it, become numb, but he hasn’t. It hurts to breathe, it hurts to move, it hurts to take a fucking piss.
He’ll be stuck in the hospital still for a while yet, and it sucks because he is in so much pain, and not all of it is physical. He’s scarred and bruised and terrified, and he will be paying for this one incident for the rest of his life.
There aren’t many physical scars left, though. Only emotional ones. The plastic surgeon his mother hired is very, very good-if he weren’t still stuck in a hospital bed, you wouldn’t know he got the shit beaten out of him two months ago for having the audacity to go to a dance with a boy.
(Sometimes he wishes the scars were still there; then it would feel so much less like he just made it all up in his head.)
Mostly he’s bored and lonely, and those two things means he sits alone in a hospital bed most days just reliving the incident over and over again in his head. It horrifying because in his head, he fights back, throws the first punch, scares them off, does anything but lie there and take it; gasping, coughing, bleeding as they hit him over and over again.
His older brother is the first person who seems to realize how absolutely bored he is, and he shows up one day with a bag full of things: movies, puzzles, video games, books, and his mother gawks at first because some of those things might be violent, like Blaine’s never been exposed to violent things before.
It doesn’t help, at first. He tries to replay Zelda for the umpteenth time, but has to stop in the middle of it because he keeps thinking about courage, and how brave Link is, and how if Blaine got called upon to save a princess (or a prince, preferably) it would never work because Blaine isn’t brave, and it just makes him even more depressed. He tries to reread the Harry Potter books, but the same problem occurs then, too. Bravery. Harry Potter is so very brave. And Blaine is not, Blaine is nothing, Blaine would never get into Gryffindor because he is a coward who runs away.
It’s like that with all his favorite things. Batman is brave, Blaine is not. Frodo is brave, Blaine is not.
Finally, he starts to make himself sick; he can’t deal with it any more, he can’t, he can’t. (You are a coward.) He starts watching old Hollywood movies instead; glitzy, glamorous things that don’t have much plot but make him feel warm inside. He gets crushes on people like Cary Grant, Marlon Brando, and James Dean, decides that when his hair finishes growing back he’s going to try the whole slicked back with gel look, and maybe buy a box of bowties.
It’s only when he has a few weeks left in the hospital that his brother brings him a copy of Fight Club. “You’ll like it,” his brother tells him, winking. “It’s got Brad Pitt in it. Lots of half naked dudes fighting each other-should be your thing.” And Blaine doesn’t have the heart to tell him that liking half-naked dudes is what got him into this mess in the first place.
It’s not his usual type of film, but the idea of a shirtless Brad Pitt does appeal to him, so he watches it anyway.
It’s amazing; it changes his life.
He watches it over and over again, pesters his brother to bring him the book. When he gets out of the hospital, he pesters his dad for boxing lessons, fencing lessons, self-defense classes. Anything to get him fighting, anything to make him feel less helpless.
(I am Blaine’s ability to fight back.)
--
How much can you know about yourself if you’ve never been in a fight? Rings true for Blaine in more ways than one. Before the incident, he always thought he was rather brave, the type of person who wouldn’t run away when faced with danger.
Now, he knows better. He’s a coward.
But with every well-aimed punch, picturing his assailants’ faces rather than the red bag, he’s getting a lot better at not being afraid.
--
Things are better at Dalton. No one cares that he’s gay, he’s able to box and fence competitively, and, even better, he’s allowed to sing. He didn’t even think he liked singing, he just joined the Warblers because his friends were doing it, but he does like singing and, more importantly, it makes him feel good, too. It’s a release, one even stronger and more potent than any amount of boxing can do for him.
He gets better. He stops obsessing over Fight Club (though, if asked, it’s still his favorite movie of all time.) He gets better grades. He becomes a gentleman. The council asks him to sing a solo at sectionals.
But then, after a year’s worth of recovery, it all comes into a screaming relapse.
And it’s all Congresswoman Sylvester’s fault.
“We’re so sorry,” the council tells them all, the second month back during his second year at Dalton. “But the law passed. Glee clubs are now illegal in Ohio. The Warblers are hereby disbanded. We’re…we’re so sorry.”
There is an outrage. There is screaming, and talks of speaking with certain Important Parents about getting the law repelled. There is the question of whether, as a private school, Dalton can get away with having a Glee club even if they are illegal.
There’s the thought that they could sing outside of the club. You know, just a group of guys, hanging out, singing a capella. Nothing illegal about that.
It doesn’t work.
(I am Blaine’s broken heart.)
--
Two weeks after the Warblers disband, Blaine punches Nick so hard in the face that he almost breaks his nose.
It feels good.
He doesn’t say that, though. What he says is “Oh my God” and “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to hit you that hard!” Nick laughs it off, and the boxing coach makes him sit out for the rest of the match, but Blaine doesn’t care. For the first time since Glee ended, he’s felt something other than numbness.
He’s not the only one.
When practice is over, Nick comes up to him without any gloves on. “Fight me.” He says, like he’s asking to borrow a pencil instead of asking if they can beat the shit out of each other.
So they fight. It is both exhausting and exhilarating. Blaine has never been in more pain in his entire life.
But he’s also never felt more alive. Singing to a sold out crowd will never feel this good.
Nick helps him off the ground, and they shake hands, like gentlemen do, with no hard feelings.
They walk away reborn.
--
It doesn’t stay a secret for long. Few things at Dalton ever do.
Somehow, most of the other Warblers find out that Nick and Blaine have been beating the shit out of each other once a week after boxing practice.
Some of them want to know what’s wrong, why are they fighting. A few others tell them to grow up and act like adults for once, Jesus.
The rest want to know if it’s true that they’ve started a Fight Club, and if they can join in.
(I am the greatest idea Blaine will ever have.)
--
end
4. X-Men Crossover
“Do you know what Dalton usually does with spies, Mr. Hummel?” The man in black breathed heavily, keeping the loaded pistol leveled with Kurt’s head. “We kill them, usually before they’ve even managed to step foot on the grounds.”
“Ah, but you’re going to let me go, on account that I’m just so darn cute.” His interrogator pressed the pistol harder against Kurt’s skull. Hmmm. Bad move. “Or we could continue the interrogation, I’m fine with that too.”
“How did you even get in here?” Mr. Dark-and-Handsome asked, taking the gun from Kurt’s forehead, but keeping it pointed at Kurt’s eye level. “You’d have to be some sort of super human in order to make it past-“ the man’s golden eyes widened. “You’re a mutant.”
Kurt whistled. “Smart and beautiful-Dalton sure knows how to pick them.”
“Jesus Christ. Are you trying to get yourself killed?”
“Not particularly,” Kurt winced as the metal binding his hands and blocking his powers dug deeper into his skin. “The plan was to not get caught.”
“That’s a stupid plan.”
“Not my best, I admit.” Kurt coughed. He was so, so tired-whatever technology was in those handcuffs was draining his energy as well as his powers. He felt old, suddenly, and terribly vulnerable. “At least they sent someone pretty to execute me.”
The man lowered the gun. “I’m not going to kill you.”
“Oh? So it won’t be a pretty one, then. Such a shame.”
“No one’s going to kill you,” the man said quietly, like he was genuinely shocked Kurt would even think that. He placed the gun back at his side on his belt where it belonged. “You’ll be our prisoner, of course, at least until the Council decides what to do with you, but we aren’t-“ The man shook his head. “We aren’t monsters, Kurt. We’re not just going to kill because you’re different. Deep down inside, you’re still just a human like the rest of us.”
Kurt couldn’t help but laugh. “I think you’ll find, Mr. Dreamy, that the heads of your organization will disagree with you on that.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m a mutant,” Kurt spat out angrily. “And according to some people, that means I’m not even human.”
“Oh Kurt.” The man removed one of his skin-tight gloves, showing off his bare hand to Kurt: in an instant, it shifted from olive toned to bright blue and clawed, then to green and wirily, and then finally olive again. So, he’s a shapeshifter, then. “You aren’t the only one.”
--
His name was Blaine Anderson, and he was, as far as Kurt could tell in his gilded cage, Dalton’s model soldier. He had only been there for a year, but from what Kurt saw, he was everything Dalton hoped to achieve: a mutant who didn’t use his powers and was, in all other aspects of his life, a model citizen. The Council loved him, and used him as their poster-boy every chance they got.
And when he wasn’t busy playing poster-boy, he was apparently Kurt Hummel’s glorified babysitter.
“You’re on the wrong side, you know.” Kurt told him, scratching the back of Pavarotti, his favorite guard-bird.
Blaine blinked at him. “Pardon?”
“Of this conflict. You’re on the wrong side.” Kurt spoke with conviction, trying to force Blaine to actually look at him. “You were born with a gift, Blaine. You were meant to use it.”
Blaine snorted, but still didn’t turn and look at him. “I was born with a curse, you mean. One that almost got me killed. Trust me, its better this way.”
“What is? Living in a cage?” Kurt balked.
“I’m not the one in a prison cell, Kurt.”
“But you are,” Kurt argued, his hands tightening around the bars of his cage. “You may not be in a literal cell like me, but you’re just as caged as I am. Tell me, when was the last time you were outside?”
“Shut up.”
“Breathed fresh air? Talked to someone who wasn’t a member of Dalton? Held hands with a girl-“ He noticed Blaine stiffen. “-Or a boy, maybe?”
“It’s better this way. “ Blaine said, with such resolution, like it was what he told himself every night so he could fall asleep.
It wasn’t much, but at least he was looking at Kurt now. “I killed my mother when I was seven.”
Blaine gasped at him. “Oh Kurt.”
“I did. I created a psionic spear on accident, and she startled me. I stabbed her with it before I even realized I had created something. She bled to death in our backyard.”
“You understand, then.” Blaine paused, his bright eyes curious. “You know why we we’re dangerous, why we need to be controlled.”
“Controlled, yes. Imprisoned, no.” Kurt argued, staring back into Blaine’s eyes defiantly. “You can learn how to control yourself. They can teach you that. But at the cost of never using your powers again? At never going outside, at hating yourself?”
“I don’t hate myself.”
Kurt couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh Blaine, you hate yourself so much you can’t even see straight sometimes.” He reached through the bars and grabbed Blaine’s hand. “Tell me, who did you hurt so badly to make you hate yourself enough to come to Dalton?”
Blaine snatched his hand back. He got quiet, and for a while Kurt thought he wasn’t going to answer him, and then-“There was this dance. Back-back in high school. When I still went to a normal high school, but I could hide my powers. These…these three guys, um, tried to beat the crap out of me and a friend. I-“ He looked towards the floor, suddenly ashamed. “I clawed their throats out.”
Kurt winced, but tried to pat Blaine gently on the shoulder. He stiffened at the contact. “Blaine. You were only defending yourself.”
“No, I wasn’t. I wanted them to die. I wanted them to die so much I tore their throats out with my bare hands.” He snorted, suddenly-a depressing, macabre sound. “My friend told me I was a monster. He was right.”
“Blaine-“
“I’m done talking about this,” Blaine turned away from Kurt, standing vigil outside of Kurt’s cell. “My shift’s almost over anyway. Jeff will be here soon to cover me. You can bother him if you’d like.”
He stood statuesque like a stone, and all Kurt wanted to do was hold him.
--
end
a/n: Let me know if you like any of them!
Dumping abandoned WIPs here, because someone should enjoy them even though I'm never going to finish them.
1. Blaine and Rachel discuss losing their virginity post-305. Puck and Santana intervene.
“You’re glowing.”
His costar stopped applying blush, looking over at him curiously. “Excuse me?”
He grinned. “You. You’re glowing.”
Rachel rolled her eyes at him, and got back to putting her makeup on. “And what, Blaine Anderson, does the fact that I’m glowing mean, exactly?”
“You had sex with Finn.” He teased her gently.
She dropped the makeup brush like it was poison. “How do you know?” She squealed, her face cherry red.
He laughed. “Ha! I knew it.”
She glowered. “Like you’re one to talk! I know for a fact that Kurt didn’t home last night and neither of you were at the after party! What were you two doing then, mister?”
He blushed. “I-you have no evidence that we did anything other than cuddle.”
Rachel pouted at him. “I-okay, fine. We had sex. Are you happy?”
Blaine giggled. “Was it good?”
“It was magical.” Rachel sighed happily. “I’m so happy I waited as long as I did. It felt right, you know?” She looked back into the mirror, darkening her eyebrows with care. “What about you and Kurt? Did you two…you know, lose the v-card?”
Blaine looked into the mirror skeptically, biting his lips. “Define virginity.”
Rachel hit him with her hairbrush. “Blaine!”
“What? We’re gay! It’s not that easy to define!”
“Here, I’ll make it easy for you, Blanderson: is your ass sore from where Hummel pounded into it like the fist of an angry God? If so, then you’re probably not a virgin anymore, sorry.”
Blaine whipped around as fast as he could, his face crimson. “Santana! When did you get here?”
The devil in a red dress rolled her eyes. “Oh, please, I can smell sex like a shark can smell blood. There was a distinct lack of virgin smell coming from this room, and I wanted to make sure you two weren’t dead. Instead, it turns out you just finally had sex. I’d offer you my congratulations, but that would require me thinking about you losing your virginity, and honestly, I don’t want to throw up while wearing this dress.”
“I agree; that dress is flawless. Though, please don’t ever think about me having sex ever again.”
Santana merely smiled. “That’s an awfully nice hickey Kurt left you, stud. Always knew he was a biter. Maybe if you’re lucky, the audience will think Maria gave it to you.”
Blaine squealed and turned back to the mirror, hastily examining his neck for any discoloration; Rachel frowned.
“You’re so mean. And for the record, Finn is not a sack of potatoes in bed. He was a perfect gentleman.”
“Huh. That’s funny, I’ve always pictured sex with Finn would be like having sex with a sack of potatoes.” Puck laughed, and then seemed to realize what he said. “Not that’s I’ve ever pictured having sex with Finn. Ever.”
Rachel whirled. “When did you get here?”
Puck grinned. “I heard the words ‘sex’ and ‘ass’ and knew this was somewhere I needed to be.”
“…You were in the other room.”
Puck’s grin widened. “Like I said: sex and ass. They were calling to me.” He offered Rachel a high-five. “Congratulations on losing the v-card, my little Jewish-American princess. Always thought I’d be the one to take that from you, but I guess I gotta let Finn win sometimes.”
Rachel hesitated before returning the five.
--
end
2. Blaine and Sugar angst pre-Hearts.
The day after Shelby Cocoran leaves Lima for good this time (or so she says: she said that before, too, and look how well that turned out) Sugar Motta confronts Blaine Anderson at his locker, and begs him to teach her how to sing.
“You are the best singer in Glee Club.” She tells him, like it’s a fact and her opinion is law. “You are even better than Rachel Berry.”
“That’s debatable.” He says diplomatically, shoving a history book back inside his locker. “And don’t ever let her hear you say that.”
She ignores him. “Please, you’ve got to teach him how to sing!”
His first thought is that her eyes are magnificently large and bright when she is trying her hardest to get her way.
His second thought is, God, I am so lonely.
But because he is (friendless) a gentleman, he smiles at her warmly. “I’ll teach you what I can. Come by my house after school, and we’ll go through the scales.”
She doesn’t hug him, but she smiles at him like maybe she wants to.
--
Mr. Schue thinks that Sugar Motta just didn’t feel like coming to Glee Club, in the time between the Troubletone’s loss at Sectionals and returning to school after winter break.
What he doesn’t know is how she spent every day after school in Blaine Anderson’s living room, singing scales and learning how to control her pitch, because she knows if Mr. Schue kicks her out of Glee Club a second time, there will be no going back.
--
Blaine claps for her every time.
--
The Sugar Shack is all Sugar’s idea, of course. She gets the idea while sitting on Blaine’s bed, watching him paint her toenails and listening as he regales her the tale of how he spent last Valentine’s day, about wooing the wrong boy and how he’s still not allowed in the Gap, about coffee orders and When Harry Met Sally, about the Lonely Hearts Club.
(Here is a secret: Kurt and Blaine are her favorites. Santana and Brittany are like her cool older sisters, but Kurt and Blaine act like she’s their friend, like they actually enjoy spending time with her, and she can’t get enough of it.)
So she gets ideas, because like Blaine Valentine’s Day is her favorite holiday, too, and her daddy will basically do anything for her, all she has to do is ask. So she starts planning things, in her mind, about a dance and renting out Breadstix and good music and gifts and people acting like they like her. It is the best idea.
She wonders if Blaine thinks so, and asks him “How do you think New Directions would feel if I threw a Valentine’s Day party and then invited all of them?”
What she means is: do you think they would want to be my friend, if I spend enough money on them?
(Blaine knows the answer to that question, too. It’s in the money his father donated to the Warblers, how he was their darling, Blaine and the Pips, and those guys are his friends, Kurt.
Up until the moment he decided he could be happier somewhere else, and then they let Sebastian throw rock salt in his eye. Not a single damn one of them texted him to see how he was after his surgery, and fuck, he’s not going to cry, not while his eye is still hurt.)
What he says is: “I think they would love that, Sugar. Here, I’ll help.”
--
It’s not that he doesn’t think about getting Kurt a Valentine’s day gift. Of course he does. There are a dozen roses and a bracelet that says courage on his nightstand as we speak.
He just doesn’t think to send anything to Kurt at school. Why would he? He’s a little preoccupied at the moment.
A thousand paper hearts aren’t made by themselves, you know. He said he’d help.
(He has to cut them out with safety scissors, the kind they give small children, because his parents and his doctors don’t exactly trust his eye-coordination at the moment.)
--
A secret admirer? Really?
Why would he ever want to keep how he feels about Kurt a secret?
--
end
3. Fight Club fic. Glee clubs are now fight clubs.
Everything hurts.
It’s been two months, but he’s still in the hospital, and everything still fucking hurts. He thought at some point the pain was supposed to go away, or maybe you were supposed to get used to it, become numb, but he hasn’t. It hurts to breathe, it hurts to move, it hurts to take a fucking piss.
He’ll be stuck in the hospital still for a while yet, and it sucks because he is in so much pain, and not all of it is physical. He’s scarred and bruised and terrified, and he will be paying for this one incident for the rest of his life.
There aren’t many physical scars left, though. Only emotional ones. The plastic surgeon his mother hired is very, very good-if he weren’t still stuck in a hospital bed, you wouldn’t know he got the shit beaten out of him two months ago for having the audacity to go to a dance with a boy.
(Sometimes he wishes the scars were still there; then it would feel so much less like he just made it all up in his head.)
Mostly he’s bored and lonely, and those two things means he sits alone in a hospital bed most days just reliving the incident over and over again in his head. It horrifying because in his head, he fights back, throws the first punch, scares them off, does anything but lie there and take it; gasping, coughing, bleeding as they hit him over and over again.
His older brother is the first person who seems to realize how absolutely bored he is, and he shows up one day with a bag full of things: movies, puzzles, video games, books, and his mother gawks at first because some of those things might be violent, like Blaine’s never been exposed to violent things before.
It doesn’t help, at first. He tries to replay Zelda for the umpteenth time, but has to stop in the middle of it because he keeps thinking about courage, and how brave Link is, and how if Blaine got called upon to save a princess (or a prince, preferably) it would never work because Blaine isn’t brave, and it just makes him even more depressed. He tries to reread the Harry Potter books, but the same problem occurs then, too. Bravery. Harry Potter is so very brave. And Blaine is not, Blaine is nothing, Blaine would never get into Gryffindor because he is a coward who runs away.
It’s like that with all his favorite things. Batman is brave, Blaine is not. Frodo is brave, Blaine is not.
Finally, he starts to make himself sick; he can’t deal with it any more, he can’t, he can’t. (You are a coward.) He starts watching old Hollywood movies instead; glitzy, glamorous things that don’t have much plot but make him feel warm inside. He gets crushes on people like Cary Grant, Marlon Brando, and James Dean, decides that when his hair finishes growing back he’s going to try the whole slicked back with gel look, and maybe buy a box of bowties.
It’s only when he has a few weeks left in the hospital that his brother brings him a copy of Fight Club. “You’ll like it,” his brother tells him, winking. “It’s got Brad Pitt in it. Lots of half naked dudes fighting each other-should be your thing.” And Blaine doesn’t have the heart to tell him that liking half-naked dudes is what got him into this mess in the first place.
It’s not his usual type of film, but the idea of a shirtless Brad Pitt does appeal to him, so he watches it anyway.
It’s amazing; it changes his life.
He watches it over and over again, pesters his brother to bring him the book. When he gets out of the hospital, he pesters his dad for boxing lessons, fencing lessons, self-defense classes. Anything to get him fighting, anything to make him feel less helpless.
(I am Blaine’s ability to fight back.)
--
How much can you know about yourself if you’ve never been in a fight? Rings true for Blaine in more ways than one. Before the incident, he always thought he was rather brave, the type of person who wouldn’t run away when faced with danger.
Now, he knows better. He’s a coward.
But with every well-aimed punch, picturing his assailants’ faces rather than the red bag, he’s getting a lot better at not being afraid.
--
Things are better at Dalton. No one cares that he’s gay, he’s able to box and fence competitively, and, even better, he’s allowed to sing. He didn’t even think he liked singing, he just joined the Warblers because his friends were doing it, but he does like singing and, more importantly, it makes him feel good, too. It’s a release, one even stronger and more potent than any amount of boxing can do for him.
He gets better. He stops obsessing over Fight Club (though, if asked, it’s still his favorite movie of all time.) He gets better grades. He becomes a gentleman. The council asks him to sing a solo at sectionals.
But then, after a year’s worth of recovery, it all comes into a screaming relapse.
And it’s all Congresswoman Sylvester’s fault.
“We’re so sorry,” the council tells them all, the second month back during his second year at Dalton. “But the law passed. Glee clubs are now illegal in Ohio. The Warblers are hereby disbanded. We’re…we’re so sorry.”
There is an outrage. There is screaming, and talks of speaking with certain Important Parents about getting the law repelled. There is the question of whether, as a private school, Dalton can get away with having a Glee club even if they are illegal.
There’s the thought that they could sing outside of the club. You know, just a group of guys, hanging out, singing a capella. Nothing illegal about that.
It doesn’t work.
(I am Blaine’s broken heart.)
--
Two weeks after the Warblers disband, Blaine punches Nick so hard in the face that he almost breaks his nose.
It feels good.
He doesn’t say that, though. What he says is “Oh my God” and “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to hit you that hard!” Nick laughs it off, and the boxing coach makes him sit out for the rest of the match, but Blaine doesn’t care. For the first time since Glee ended, he’s felt something other than numbness.
He’s not the only one.
When practice is over, Nick comes up to him without any gloves on. “Fight me.” He says, like he’s asking to borrow a pencil instead of asking if they can beat the shit out of each other.
So they fight. It is both exhausting and exhilarating. Blaine has never been in more pain in his entire life.
But he’s also never felt more alive. Singing to a sold out crowd will never feel this good.
Nick helps him off the ground, and they shake hands, like gentlemen do, with no hard feelings.
They walk away reborn.
--
It doesn’t stay a secret for long. Few things at Dalton ever do.
Somehow, most of the other Warblers find out that Nick and Blaine have been beating the shit out of each other once a week after boxing practice.
Some of them want to know what’s wrong, why are they fighting. A few others tell them to grow up and act like adults for once, Jesus.
The rest want to know if it’s true that they’ve started a Fight Club, and if they can join in.
(I am the greatest idea Blaine will ever have.)
--
end
4. X-Men Crossover
“Do you know what Dalton usually does with spies, Mr. Hummel?” The man in black breathed heavily, keeping the loaded pistol leveled with Kurt’s head. “We kill them, usually before they’ve even managed to step foot on the grounds.”
“Ah, but you’re going to let me go, on account that I’m just so darn cute.” His interrogator pressed the pistol harder against Kurt’s skull. Hmmm. Bad move. “Or we could continue the interrogation, I’m fine with that too.”
“How did you even get in here?” Mr. Dark-and-Handsome asked, taking the gun from Kurt’s forehead, but keeping it pointed at Kurt’s eye level. “You’d have to be some sort of super human in order to make it past-“ the man’s golden eyes widened. “You’re a mutant.”
Kurt whistled. “Smart and beautiful-Dalton sure knows how to pick them.”
“Jesus Christ. Are you trying to get yourself killed?”
“Not particularly,” Kurt winced as the metal binding his hands and blocking his powers dug deeper into his skin. “The plan was to not get caught.”
“That’s a stupid plan.”
“Not my best, I admit.” Kurt coughed. He was so, so tired-whatever technology was in those handcuffs was draining his energy as well as his powers. He felt old, suddenly, and terribly vulnerable. “At least they sent someone pretty to execute me.”
The man lowered the gun. “I’m not going to kill you.”
“Oh? So it won’t be a pretty one, then. Such a shame.”
“No one’s going to kill you,” the man said quietly, like he was genuinely shocked Kurt would even think that. He placed the gun back at his side on his belt where it belonged. “You’ll be our prisoner, of course, at least until the Council decides what to do with you, but we aren’t-“ The man shook his head. “We aren’t monsters, Kurt. We’re not just going to kill because you’re different. Deep down inside, you’re still just a human like the rest of us.”
Kurt couldn’t help but laugh. “I think you’ll find, Mr. Dreamy, that the heads of your organization will disagree with you on that.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m a mutant,” Kurt spat out angrily. “And according to some people, that means I’m not even human.”
“Oh Kurt.” The man removed one of his skin-tight gloves, showing off his bare hand to Kurt: in an instant, it shifted from olive toned to bright blue and clawed, then to green and wirily, and then finally olive again. So, he’s a shapeshifter, then. “You aren’t the only one.”
--
His name was Blaine Anderson, and he was, as far as Kurt could tell in his gilded cage, Dalton’s model soldier. He had only been there for a year, but from what Kurt saw, he was everything Dalton hoped to achieve: a mutant who didn’t use his powers and was, in all other aspects of his life, a model citizen. The Council loved him, and used him as their poster-boy every chance they got.
And when he wasn’t busy playing poster-boy, he was apparently Kurt Hummel’s glorified babysitter.
“You’re on the wrong side, you know.” Kurt told him, scratching the back of Pavarotti, his favorite guard-bird.
Blaine blinked at him. “Pardon?”
“Of this conflict. You’re on the wrong side.” Kurt spoke with conviction, trying to force Blaine to actually look at him. “You were born with a gift, Blaine. You were meant to use it.”
Blaine snorted, but still didn’t turn and look at him. “I was born with a curse, you mean. One that almost got me killed. Trust me, its better this way.”
“What is? Living in a cage?” Kurt balked.
“I’m not the one in a prison cell, Kurt.”
“But you are,” Kurt argued, his hands tightening around the bars of his cage. “You may not be in a literal cell like me, but you’re just as caged as I am. Tell me, when was the last time you were outside?”
“Shut up.”
“Breathed fresh air? Talked to someone who wasn’t a member of Dalton? Held hands with a girl-“ He noticed Blaine stiffen. “-Or a boy, maybe?”
“It’s better this way. “ Blaine said, with such resolution, like it was what he told himself every night so he could fall asleep.
It wasn’t much, but at least he was looking at Kurt now. “I killed my mother when I was seven.”
Blaine gasped at him. “Oh Kurt.”
“I did. I created a psionic spear on accident, and she startled me. I stabbed her with it before I even realized I had created something. She bled to death in our backyard.”
“You understand, then.” Blaine paused, his bright eyes curious. “You know why we we’re dangerous, why we need to be controlled.”
“Controlled, yes. Imprisoned, no.” Kurt argued, staring back into Blaine’s eyes defiantly. “You can learn how to control yourself. They can teach you that. But at the cost of never using your powers again? At never going outside, at hating yourself?”
“I don’t hate myself.”
Kurt couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh Blaine, you hate yourself so much you can’t even see straight sometimes.” He reached through the bars and grabbed Blaine’s hand. “Tell me, who did you hurt so badly to make you hate yourself enough to come to Dalton?”
Blaine snatched his hand back. He got quiet, and for a while Kurt thought he wasn’t going to answer him, and then-“There was this dance. Back-back in high school. When I still went to a normal high school, but I could hide my powers. These…these three guys, um, tried to beat the crap out of me and a friend. I-“ He looked towards the floor, suddenly ashamed. “I clawed their throats out.”
Kurt winced, but tried to pat Blaine gently on the shoulder. He stiffened at the contact. “Blaine. You were only defending yourself.”
“No, I wasn’t. I wanted them to die. I wanted them to die so much I tore their throats out with my bare hands.” He snorted, suddenly-a depressing, macabre sound. “My friend told me I was a monster. He was right.”
“Blaine-“
“I’m done talking about this,” Blaine turned away from Kurt, standing vigil outside of Kurt’s cell. “My shift’s almost over anyway. Jeff will be here soon to cover me. You can bother him if you’d like.”
He stood statuesque like a stone, and all Kurt wanted to do was hold him.
--
end
a/n: Let me know if you like any of them!