Author's Note: This is Blaine's side of my other completed story entitled Bad Connection, which can be found on my profile. Also, this first chapter is dedicated to crownedqueenofbitchland as a belated birthday present :)

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I had learned a long time ago that things hurt the most when someone you loved was inflicting them upon you. You expected someone you hated to hurt you. You expected them to try and tear you down, demean you, and break your spirit. But the people you had known and loved all your life were supposed to care about you. They were supposed to be the ones picking you back up, defending you, comforting you…

Unfortunately, I didn't have that luxury.

Every blow my father delivered hurt much more than it should have, but only on the inside. My body had toughened over the years of abuse, but my mind remained fragile as one of the people I had loved, trusted, and idolized literally beat me to the ground.

I didn't cry anymore – not while he was around, anyway – but I didn't fight back either. No matter how many times the logical part of my brain told me that my father was a dangerous man, I simply couldn't hurt the one person who gave a shit whether I lived or died.

As much as my father claimed to despise me, he would never kill me. Why would he when I was so good at stealing him booze and cigarettes?

My body became numb to the pain after the first few punches to my stomach. I sank down the wall of our apartment in defeat, letting him kick me in the ribs without complaint, barely wincing and doing everything I could not to look at his face. If I looked at his face, I would see the monster that had once been my dad.

Eventually he got tired of pummeling me. He always stopped before any of my injuries were too serious. Part of me hoped this was because he still had some residual parental instincts – the logical part of me knew it was just because he didn't want to get arrested.

He plopped down on the couch that served as my bed, taking a swig from the flat beer that had sat on the side table since last night, muttering to himself between drinks about how hard I was to deal with.

I didn't move, scared that if I did he would start hitting me again, mentally assessing the damage he'd done. There would definitely be bruises across my ribs, along with my wrist from when he'd grabbed me, and I felt like I was going to be sick from the punch he'd delivered to my stomach.

All in all, this beating hadn't been that bad.

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I got out of the house as quickly as I could, waiting until my dad retreated into the only bedroom in the apartment in search of a smoke before grabbing my worn backpack from under the couch and leaving. I had missed the school bus by now, but if I ran I could make the city bus that ran by my new school.

William McKinley High School – it didn't sound like a very interesting place; named after a failed president, overused mascot, and cliché school colors, just like the dump I'd been expelled from the previous week.

Most people would be able to see the bright side about switching schools. Meeting a new crowd of people your age meant a higher probability of finding your soul mate. I, however, had given up on the whole principal of soul mates a long time ago.

Finding your soul mate was something instantaneous, flipping your life around the moment you made eye contact with the person you were destined to be with forever. I'd heard many adults gush about how they'd just known when they'd met "the one". It was called Connecting, and - try as I might to block it from my mind - it was something I thought about everyday.

My parents had Connected – I could vaguely remember them telling me stories when I was little about how they were so certain of their love for each other that they'd rushed into a marriage and wed less than six months later. But then when I was seven, my mother had walked out on us. That was when my father took up drinking, and smoking soon after, once he'd stopped caring about everything. About me.

Connections meant next to nothing. This I had seen evidence of. It was what made my life so fucked up in the first place, what had made me someone that no guy would ever want as their soul mate. If that hadn't made me give up hope, my father's continuous, very drunken lectures about how I wasn't worth shit did.

But that didn't stop me from fantasizing. Late at night, after my father had passed out and my resolve was weak from exhaustion, I would imagine meeting the eyes of someone and being absolutely positive that nothing could go wrong between us. He wouldn't look at me like everyone else did – he would care about me and try to see who the person was that I kept locked up inside so tightly. He would hold my hand so gently in his and smile whenever I smiled, and be perfectly understanding and actually listen to me like my opinion meant something to him.

It was times like that, when I let my mind wander to impossibilities, that I couldn't stop myself from crying. Quietly, of course, but I could feel it all the way to my bones, to my lonely soul. Because who would be insane enough to love someone like me?

I pulled my old leather jacket tighter around myself, folding my hands under my arms to keep my fingers warm in the nippy October air. I mentally prepared myself to act like I was tough and no one could hurt me, because if there was anything I had learned from my time in juvie, it was that if you acted untouchable, people generally kept their distance. It was the only thing that got me through the day. Teachers and movies feed you all this "don't be afraid to be yourself" crap, but the last time I listened to that, I got my ass kicked. As it turns out, not very many people in Ohio like depressed, lonely gay kids who find their solace in singing solos in choir class.

The bus rumbled up to the sidewalk just before I arrived at the bus stop, the doors sliding open with a hissing sound. I fished in my pocket for the fare, panicking momentarily because I wasn't sure I had enough. I found some change in my pocket and the rest in my backpack, some of the morning commuters coughing impatiently. I sneered at them, trying to look like the hard-hearted delinquent people expected me to be.

I knew I should've been used to the looks of disdain the other passengers shot at me as I took my seat, but they still hurt a little bit.

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Evidently I wasn't the only newcomer to McKinley, because by my third period I'd already witnessed a cheerleader Connect to a Russian exchange student. The girl had squealed in delight and thrown herself into the arms of her gangly, very surprised soul mate.

Later in class I heard some nerdy girls muttering wistfully about how romantic it was that a hot cheerleader Connected to a lanky nerd, sighing happily that there was hope for everyone.

I felt a little sorry for them, because sometimes, it just wasn't that simple.

Thinking about how you're doomed to be alone for the rest of your life tends to make you lose your appetite, so I opted out of getting lunch in the cafeteria lines. Maybe I could stall one more day before I tried to buy food and the lunch staff gave me a look of pity upon realizing I was on the welfare list.

I was trying to find an empty table when my whole life changed.

Never before had I seen a more beautifully intricate pair of eyes. They were like fine works of art, orbs of blue, green, and gray flecks, with every shade in between. My own vision seemed to have been improved tenfold just so I could drink in every detail of them, all of the air whooshing out of my lungs and my insides getting a kind of melting feeling. They looked like endless oceans, so mesmerizing that I almost didn't realize what was happening to me.

My heart actually soared, a feeling that had been absent from my life for so long, because I was Connecting. I would actually get to have that one person I could spill my soul into, someone that would listen and understand and love me and take care of me, someone who would hold me and tell me I wasn't the worthless bastard I felt like most of the time.

In that moment all my problems seemed to shrink. It didn't matter so much that my mom was out of the picture or my dad considered beating the crap out of my a hobby, because I had finally found that one person I was meant to spend the rest of my life with.

And god, was he gorgeous. When I finally stopped looking at his eyes long enough to actually see my soul mate's face, I was blown away.

He was perfect. Pale, smooth skin; quirked, sculpted eyebrows; pink, parted lips; high cheekbones, soft brown hair, almost elfin ears, clothes that belonged on a runway but looked so right on his lean body – I could literally feel my soul opening up to this incredible boy. I began to wonder how I'd gotten so lucky –

But I hadn't - f course I hadn't – because the look my soul mate was giving me was one of hatred and disgust, just like everybody else. But there was something else there too: disappointment.

My heart dropped like a stone, my face falling back into the mask of disconcert that I wore around everyone.

I instinctively began to leave, my feet taking long strides out of the cafeteria. I felt a tug from deep inside me, warring with myself because leaving my newly Connected soul mate just felt wrong, but I knew he would've left if I didn't. This was just saving myself from a bit more pain.

My brain settled into autopilot mode, taking me to my locker to retrieve my belongings and the carrying me out of the school. I just kept walking, heading for my house that was never really my home.

My heart called out, loud and clear:

Kurt.

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