A/N:When plot bunnies attack! There's a full A/N at the bottom if anyone's interested. If not, please review before you go, and thanks for stopping by!
I don't own anything.
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"Let's breathe." She shushes him, tenderly shifting him off of her as he steadies his breathing— because he is not affected, because he is repulsed, because he is hyperventilating. "Shh, just breathe, baby."
And he breathes. The ticking of the clock fades into the background, and quiet muffled sounds emerge from the rooms above them, as the Berry household continues to move, and he is standing utterly fucking still.
And there is a long wait, as he stares at the ceiling and just thinks, just breathes, just blinks, swallows. Reflects.
"Blaine?"
Blaine hmms quietly, shifting his head as he turns to look at the brunette lying next to him. Soft skin, dark eyes, long lashes— all a guy could ever want. But not him. Not Blaine.
"Am I unattractive?" she asks softly, blinking gently as her gaze pierces his heart.
Blaine aches as he reaches out to brush a strand of her hair away from her face, tracing her cheekbone. So soft, so delicate. But so feminine.
"No," he promises, sighing inaudibly. "You're beautiful, Rachel."
She hmms in response, a wry smile on her lips. "Don't be like that."
"Like what?" he questions.
"Flattery will get you nowhere, sir." There's a smile hidden there, hidden somewhere in her whisper, right before her eyes grow sad and the curve of her lips becomes less pronounced in the pause that seems to flutter through the air, so comfortable, yet so heart-wrenchingly sad. "Blaine?"
He does not respond, only turns his head slightly in acknowledgement as he waits for her next words, the next words that he can see coming a mile away…
"Are you gay?"
…and yet he freezes with the harsh reality, the slap in the face that echoes with every single syllable, every single breath it took to utter the phrase, every tick of the second hand on his dresser, ticking away softly in his heart, his mind, his breath, his eyes.
Her demeanor does not change. The comfort does not dissipate in the air, the room does not grow colder. She leans back more comfortable, her eyes closed, lashes casting shadows on her face as he wishes, wishes that they could entrance him in the same way that they entrance the other boys.
She slides her hand across his arm, reaching his hand finally and intertwining their fingers as her thumb strokes his palm reassuringly.
"Don't be afraid," she murmurs. "It's okay. I've got you."
And her eyes open and stare into his, and he wants to cry. He wants to let out the tears, let them slide down his cheeks, more and more for forever and ever.
He opens his mouth and his voice is rough.
Rough, like the world.
"Yes."
She smiles stunningly, and part of him feels so angry at her cheerfulness, because his whole fucking world is collapsing.
"Good," she whispers, rolling into him and tucking herself into his side. "Because I've always wanted to be somebody's hag."
He chuckles then, quietly, and the beating of his heart and the beating of the outside world goes away a little, because his now ex-girlfriend is okay with it, and her gay dads are okay with it, so won't the rest of the world?
And he just breathes.
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It spreads on Facebook first.
His naïveté was almost laughable in light of the current situation.
And Rachel holds him close as he just cries, shopping bag still in hand, a bruise forming on his cheek as Mercedes and Santana look on angrily.
In retrospect, it's almost kind of funny how intimidating Santana was towards those cruel jocks, the ones who painted his face in dark painful colors with their self-righteous fists.
But it's not.
And the three girls and he just huddle together as he cries, and even Santana has tears in her eyes as she runs her fingers through his hair.
"Breathe," she whispers, so he does.
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He should have known his father would be just like the rest.
He already was in every other way.
Jock, straight D student, getting drunk all the time.
Why should this be any different?
Blaine hisses in pain as he gingerly shifts his arm, and the sound echoes throughout the locker room— his safe haven now that home is no longer a home.
It's dark outside. He thinks he might just sleep here, in a locker, even— in case Karofsky or one of the others comes back and sees him.
He's already been beaten by his own father. He doesn't need more jocks to come get him.
His shoulder pops a little and he whimpers, unable to move as he sits, paralyzed in fear as a locker slams shut and a voice calls out a hesitant hello?
Ten minutes later he is leaning against Mike Chang's shoulder, and Finn Hudson is placing an ice pack on his shoulder as Sam drives and Artie questions him.
Puck, despite their warnings, left the building in a hurry after popping Blaine's shoulder back into place, and though nobody wants to talk about it, they all simultaneously worry about him and thank him for his courage to stand up to a man who has terrorized Blaine his whole life.
Breathe, Blaine. Breathe. He chants the words in his head.
And he does.
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Brittany, Tina, Quinn, Lauren, Kurt.
They're an odd bunch.
They're the last thoughts that enter his mind as he drifts off, his body black and blue, and he sees them hovering over him in concern.
He wakes up sometime later, in a white bed, Kurt holding his hand in worry as he drifts in and out of consciousness.
The first and last thing he thinks of are the colors of Kurt's eyes, the colors of the sea, the colors of the sky and everything that has ever meant safety and promise to him.
And as his heart stutters and he freaks out a little bit, because hello, a gorgeous guy who appears to be flamboyantly gay is holding his hand in a hospital, looking at him in genuine concern, Kurt smooths his hair over his forehead and leans in, whispering one word, coupled with another, to form an action he has never as of yet completed.
"Breathe easy."
And he does.
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Sometime much later, when the earth has turned fully and rotated around the sun at least seven times, Blaine stands in front of a mirror, his eyes darkening in worry as he adjusts his tie, as he checks the flower in his pocket, as he brushes off imaginary specks off of his collar and then wonders if that just looked pathetic.
And he finally takes a deep shuddering breath all on his own and wanders down through pathways, down an empty column among hundreds of chairs, all of which contain occupants who stare at him with tears in their eyes, and he can make out Rachel and Finn and Tina and Mike and Brittany and Santana and Artie and Quinn and Puck and Lauren and Mercedes and Sam and Kurt.
And his heartbeat quickens as he watches their eyes and he realizes that all along he has had these friends looking out for him, watching out for him silently, and really, Blaine Anderson has had a wonderful ten or so years.
But then the man in front of them is speaking, reading aloud from a little book, words that mean so much but are absolutely meaningless and Kurt is hyperventilating and his eyes are panicked but so in love and Blaine cannot help but look at him and clutch his hands and lean forward to whisper in his ears the words that have kept him grounded and sane for so many years—
Breathe, Kurt. Breathe easy.
And they do.
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A/N: So I was listening to "The Show Goes On" in my head while I was writing this, in case anyone was interested. And for those of you who were reading "Just Another Word I Never Learned To Pronounce," I updated, but the story alert thing is acting stupid and isn't working, so you can just go find it on my page :P
Without reviews, writing is like talking to yourself. Talking to yourself is common, but after a while you start to think you might be crazy. So please review!
Thanks for stopping by!