Author's Note: So this is my first time writing fanfiction. I started this because I love Fight Club and I love Klaine more than air. This is the beginning of a Fight Club/Klaine crossover and I have no idea whether I'm going to continue it or not. So yeah. Here you go.
When you have a head gash and a broken nose, people tend to stay out of your way in the halls. Even being the token gay, no one wants to mess with you if it looks like you're already fucked up. No one quite knows how to process the damage that I'm sporting these days; usually the bullies are subtler than that. They leave bruises where my clothes can cover it and double check that I don't talk about them. So when I suddenly started showing up with a fucked up face, a limp, and a smirk, they didn't know what to do.
Sitting in class with blood dripping down the side of your face, the butterfly bandage not holding together the giant split through the middle of your left eyebrow, you become more aware of your surroundings. Second row from the right, fourth from back, that asshole is giving you the side-eye. The bitch that has been sitting next to you all year is now subtly trying to figure out potential empty seats for tomorrow. She is also slowly inching her chair away from you as blood drips from the edge of your jaw onto your notebook.
You'd think that I would be bothered by the extra attention I'm getting. See, I used to walk through high school hoping that no one noticed me the wrong way, because that would mean an extra push into the metal lockers, an extra kick to the shins, an extra death threat just to seal off the day. So you'd think that I would not want the newfound attention. But I loved it. I craved it. I loved showing up after an intense night with new bruises everywhere, bleeding cuts that obviously needed stitches but were left untreated. Scabs left festering, gashes dripping everywhere you go. That brings attention. That brings the stares, the whispers, the sidelong glances, the rumors.
That brought a whole new me into play. Because now I just didn't give a shit. I didn't give a shit about who was looking at me. I didn't care if the bullies left me alone or kept up their bullshit. I didn't care if half of my friends were now scared to look at me too long or no teacher would now meet my eye. I didn't give a shit whether my dad was looking into therapy for me behind my back. I didn't give a shit because I wasn't me anymore.
But see, I didn't get in to fight club because I was sick of my life, though that was a perk. I didn't get into it because it stopped the harassment and the death threats. I didn't even get into it in an effort to prove something to all the assholes at my school.
No. It all started at an all-boy's private school of all places.
It started with one dapper fuck named Blaine Anderson.