Warnings: Rated M for violence, language, sexual situations, and mature themes. Some content may be triggering.

Disclaimer: I do not own Glee, but you already knew that. If I owned Glee, I wouldn't be writing fanfiction.

Notes: This fic is entirely AU. Spoiler free. This is NOT a stoner fic. Eventual Klaine.

Chapter 1

Suzy Homemaker Shits a Brick

The distinct rumble of thunder sounded from a distance, the storm still miles away. Everything was dry, but he could feel the damp wind rushing over his heated skin already. It wouldn't be long before the rain stared down, soaking the ground and everything laying on it and him. If he was smart, he'd get up, get out of the weather, find a safe place and help, call the police, go to the hospital, anything at all, but he just stayed where he was, sprawled out on the concrete. It was late, he knew, and the tight shadow of buildings made it feel more claustrophobic and dark. A nearby street light gave just enough to burn at his eyes and make his head pound, so Blaine kept his eyes tightly shut. The only sound he could distinguish was the rush of wind through a tree, strategically placed along the street to make the urban area look just a little less depressing. That and the thunder, which was becoming louder each time.

Blaine felt a drop of moisture from his cheek run down his face and back towards his ear, and he cursed himself for crying. He didn't deserve the release, he deserved to suffer. He thought about reaching up to brush away the wetness, but his arms felt like lead, so he still remained still as death on the pavement. More cool tears ran across his face before he felt it on his chin. Even with languid dizziness in his brain, he knew that wasn't right. Then, he heard sound of it hitting the concrete beside him. Oh. He wasn't crying. It was raining.

Or maybe it was both.

Either way, he knew that if he was smart, he wouldn't stay here. Not with the storm getting closer. He didn't need to be struck by lightning on top of everything else. Chest already aching to breathe, he opened his eyes, and tried to support his heavy arms underneath him. The street swayed in his vision and he slammed his eyes shut again to keep himself from throwing up, Blaine continued to push himself into the sitting position. Shots of sizzling pain went through him, but he kept moving forward until his hand slid on the wet concrete. Not rain. Blood. The muscles in his stomach automatically contracted, trying to hold him upright, but with it came an excruciating bought of pain. It shot up his spine like fire and suddenly he couldn't catch any air. Falling back against the sidewalk, he was sure he was making some sort of noise, but the rushing in his ears was too much and he couldn't hear it.

It felt like an eternity before he could breathe again, the pain still sizzling through his body, an angry reminder of his stupidity, worthlessness, and neglect. Maybe this was how he was supposed to die; right here in the rain. Maybe if he opened his mouth a little wider he could drown and make it quicker.

Blaine wondered what time it was. He wondered how peeved the bartender was that he'd forgotten to pay his drink tab before leaving. He wondered if his old roommate at Dalton had remembered to close the window or if it the curtains were now getting soaked. He wondered if his parents were in bed by now and how long would it take before they realized he was missing. He wondered if what kind of music they would play at his funer-

Somewhere off to the side, the sound of splashing in puddles caught his attention, someone rushing past in the rain. More than one, he decided, as he could hear them shouting over the rush to one another as they went. Their words were garbled and Blaine couldn't understand any of it and trying just made his head hurt worse. Clenching his eyes tighter and breathing heavily through his nose, he sounds of pounding feet on wet sidewalk came closer and then crossed the street towards him. Of course they had seen him. It may have been dark and raining, but he was laid out on the sidewalk under a street light. Groaning, he realized that he didn't want anyone to see him. The idea of facing anyone now was sickening and he felt hot tears, real this time, well up behind his eyes. A choppy moan of both shameful frustration and pain came out of him and he turned his head away. There was a touch on his shoulder and some mumbling which he did his best to ignore, willing them to just go away. The hand gripped tighter, shaking slightly to get his attention.

"Hey. Hey, buddy. You okay?" Blaine responded with a groan, twitching his shoulder under the touch, which was the best he could do to push the person away.

"He's probably just drunk off his ass. Leave him there," someone else said. In his dizzy mind, all he could tell was that it was someone different. "If you haven't noticed, it's fucking raining."

"Dude, what's under your shoe?" said still another voice. "Is that blood? iShit./i" The three voices continued arguing like that over the rush of falling rain. Blaine had had enough of it. Yes, he didn't want to be noticed, but now that he was, the idea of being talked about like he wasn't there was just as frustrating.

With tremendous effort, Blaine pried his eyes open. The three hooded people were all standing over him, indistinguishable with the brightness of streetlight behind them. He tried to see, but with the rain falling down, he slammed them close once again.

"Hey, buddy," said the person whose hand was still resting on his shoulder, not nearly as much of a comfort as it was intended to be. "We're going to get you some help, okay? Just hang in there."

"Where?" an incredulous voice asked.

"I don't know. Just run down to the laundromat and have them call an ambulance or something. We-"

"No!" Blaine cut in, his voice sounding more gravely and breathless than usual, even before trying to shout. Still he couldn't let them go and do something crazy like that. They had seen him like this, but no one else was going to. He wasn't going to have to tell a doctor what happened. He wasn't going to be poked and prodded. He wasn't going to have to rehash everything to the cops. Not his parents. No. Never again. "No hospitals," he breathed, feeling dizzy again from only that much exertion.

"Dude, you're totally-"

"No hospitals!" He squirmed, trying to get away from them even though there was really nowhere to get. The pain shot up his back again and he let out a cry of pain in surprise. He could feel more touches on him, could hear them saying more words that he couldn't understand, but the rush of rain and the wheeze of his breath drowned out everything else. Then it was gone.

The first thing Blaine noticed upon waking was that it had stopped raining. … No, he could hear the tapping of it against the window, but he was dry, so he must be inside. Which meant he was in a hospital. … Prying his tired eyes open, he found that that wasn't true either. He was laid out on a short sofa, knees bent slightly because it was even too small for him. A ratty blanket was thrown across him, another bunched around his feet; he must have gotten too warm in his sleep.

This was someone's living room, he realized, in an apartment somewhere. It was a small living room with old mismatched furniture and a boxy television set up in the corner. The walls were bare of pictures or anything personal and the windows were only covered by a ratty blinds that hung crooked, the way all blinds inherently do. It didn't look dirty, but there was a dusty, musty smell about it that reflected lack of care. A coffee table only a few feet from the sofa was empty apart from an ash tray which was in desperate need of cleaning.

Pushing himself further up on the couch, the pain shot up his back once again. It still burned horribly, but less like it was trying to rip him in two. He held his breath and adjusted himself to the most comfortable position, feeling the pain ebb slightly. With a deep breath, he fought the pain and stretched to look around. Over the back of the sofa, he could just see a sink with numerous dirty dishes in the tiny kitchenette. In front of him were two doors, one open showing the corner of an unmade bed, the other closed. He figured the front door was somewhere behind him, but he didn't have the strength to turn around and look.

It was daylight outside, but the whole apartment was silent. Blaine couldn't tell if he was alone or not, but he couldn't even sense movement behind the closed doors. He wasn't sure what time it was, seeing no clock, but it had to have been at least hours since he was on the sidewalk if the sun was up and his clothes were dry.

For a brief moment, fear gripped his chest. What if he had been picked up by murderers or … people like the men from the bar? What if they intended to hurt him or kill him or something else? What if he was in danger here, would anyone be able to hear his cries for help?

And all at once he decided he didn't care. So what if they killed him? They couldn't hurt him worse than he already was, so who cared? And he was warm, comfortable, with pillows and blankets. Someone who intended harm or murder would hardly put that much care into it, right? Right.

That was his last thought before he fell back asleep.

Upon the second time waking, Blaine was sure he was not alone. He could feel the warmth and presence of someone nearby. After staring blankly at the cracked paneled ceiling for who knows how long, he heard the obvious sound of someone opening and closing the refrigerator. Taking a deep breath, he started the struggle to get himself sitting up again. The sounds of his groaning and the squeak of sofa springs got the attention of someone else.

"Hey, you're awake!" Red in the face with pain throbbing through his body, Blaine glanced up to see who had come around the couch. There stood a boy (well, a teenager, really) about his age. He was smiling pleasantly, but after noticing Blaine's discomfort, the smile slipped away. "I, um-" the other boy began, shoving his shaggy blond hair away from his eyes, which darted around nervously. After a moment, he turned and more hastily towards the bedrooms and disappeared.

Blaine sighed and sank back into the pillows, just as unsure about what he was suppose to do now as the other boy had seemed. Should he just force himself up, give the boy a gracious thank you for helping him, and leave? Would the boy expect something in return? Blaine was pretty sure he had a 20 in his pocket, but that hardly seemed like reasonable compensation for saving someone's life.

He needn't worry too much, however, because after a moment, the blond boy returned with another male, who walked right up to the sofa, crossed his arms, and stared down at Blaine skeptically. If that wasn't intimidating enough, the blond boy was knocking on the closed door and out came a girl with dyed hair. In a matter of seconds, they were all around him, staring.

Blaine shifted uncomfortably, which only caused another shot of pain and he cringed, hissing through his teeth.

"Seriously, what did you do? Get hit by a bus?" the girl with pink hair asked darkly, turning on her heel with much more elegance that he assumed someone like her to have. She was dressed in mostly black with heavy makeup and equally heavily jewelry that clanked together as she walked. She turned her back on them, switching on the television and flopping herself down in an armchair, like some kid on her sofa wasn't of any concern to her.

"My money was on someone beat the crap out of you... on 'account 'a the black eye." The blond boy added, leaning on the back of the sofa while he looked down at him. Blaine reached up to his face in tentative confusion, but when he touched the swell, he felt the pound of pain.

"I hadn't realized..." he mumbled quietly, still feeling the dark glare of the remaining boy. Truth be told, the other pains in his body had completely distracted him from anything else. Now that he was aware of it, though, he could feel the slight thump from a bruised face and a sear from his right arm.

"Well?" the last guy asked harshly, making Blaine's eyes jump to him. His eyes were dark and his hair was shaved close on the sides in a short mohawk. He was tall and muscular and, although he looked older than the other two, Blaine had the distinct feeling that all three were about his age.

"W-what he said," Blaine answered, quickly, motioning to the blond guy. He nearly cringed at his own terrible lie, but the big guy seemed to accept it easily.

"Ha!" the blond guy shot at the mohawk guy. "Told you!"

Mohawk guy ignored him, but relaxed visibility. With the tough glare gone, he looked considerably younger and Blaine felt himself relax too. "I'm Puck. This is Lips," he motioned to the blond kid, "and Pinky."

The girl called "Pinky" gave a visible wince and made a show of turning up the volume on the television to drown them out. It was some Friends rerun that was over 10 years old, but her eyes were fixed on it as if it were life and death, even though she was only giving silent protest to what was going on on the sofa behind her.

"Lips" cut into his musings. "I'm Sam," he corrected, shooting a bemused glanced at the mohawked guy, Puck. "And that's Quinn." Quinn made no move to acknowledge this introduction, but Blaine still nodded his understanding.

"My name's Blaine."

"What kind of name is Blaine?" the Puck guy asked on a snort, flopping down on the threadbare carpet to focus on the television also.

"What kind of name is Noah?" Sam rebutted before Blaine could say anything and Blaine felt his mouth turn up slightly at the defense.

Puck gave a dark look over his shoulder that Sam seemed to find more amusing than intimidating, "What kind of name is Samuel?" Sam just gave a bark of laughter and turned to head back to whatever he was doing in the kitchenette before Blaine had woken up. Quinn and Puck just continued to watch the television set, seemingly unaware the reception made the picture nearly impossible to stand.

Awkwardly, Blaine settled back into his pillows. It was weird, just sitting there while the other three went about their business. He felt like he was intruding on their lives, but none of them seemed particularly concerned with his presence, so he didn't move. Just looked around the sad little apartment and it's occupants, who didn't seem to notice how sad it was.

"You want somethin' to eat?" Sam appeared back over the sofa, nearly making Blaine jump, a sandwich clutched in his fist.

Blaine glanced over at the other two, but they still seemed unconcerned. "No," he replied politely. "No, thank you. I'm fine." Sam shrugged and walked away, chewing a big mouthful of sandwich and the room was once again silent, apart from the echoing sound of sitcom audience laughter.

He must have dozed off again because the next thing he knew, the TV had changed over to some different sitcom and Sam and Puck were standing near the bedroom door, gathering things together and shoving them into a worn out backpack.

"Let's go." Sam was saying, "we're going to be late and-"

"You're going somewhere?" Blaine hadn't even realized he'd said anything at all until both of the guys were looking at him. Cursing his mouth for moving independently, he glanced down at his hands, then back up again. Neither seemed to have been offended by the question, so Blaine figured it was okay.

"I have very profitable pool-cleaning business," Puck said proudly while Sam shouldered the bag.

"Among other things," added a dark voice from the armchair. Blaine had forgotten the pink haired girl was there. She hadn't moved, though, still staring at the TV as if she was completely unaware that there was anyone else in the room.

"Hey," Puck spouted, "it's a totally legit business!"

"Hmm," said the girl from the chair. "It's the only thing that is."

The mohawked boy didn't seem offended by the accusation at all and shrugged, "dealing pays more."

"Drugs?" Blaine almost squeaked from the couch and all three looked at him in amazement, even Quinn craning her neck over the back of her chair.

There was a long minute of silence in which Blaine was reconsidering his stance on just laying around until he died, then Puck laughed; a great bark of amusement. He walked across the room and actually reached down to ruffled Blaine's hair, as if he was some sort of adorable child, "Well, they ain't Cheetos, dude," and continued past to the door. Another minute later, both he and Sam were gone, leaving Blaine alone with the pink-haired girl.

"Idiot," Quinn muttered to herself, turning the volume on her television up again to an obnoxious level, as if trying to drown out Blaine's existence.

He wasn't entirely sure why it hadn't occurred to him before, but suddenly it hit Blaine that this was it. There was nothing else. Just these three kids, one ugly little apartment paid for with money from who-knows-where, and him. There was no adult coming home from a long day of work. No school bus coming to shovel them off to a high school hell. Only this. The thought was a comfort, warm and relaxing, and Blaine reveled in it. As he felt himself dropping off to sleep once again, he knew in the back of his mind that he didn't want to leave.

I have no idea at all how people are going to like this, so please leave me a message or review. You can also visit me on tumblr at klainerific. Thanks so much!

Chapter 2: The Theme to Rocky