Chapter One.
Warning, contains dark themes including graphic displays of abuse and mentions of rape. Not for someone looking for a light hearted Glee story. Blaine is straight in this world, and pretty messed up. I do not own any of the characters, nor the concept of Glee. No copyright infringement intended. Enjoy! Feedback appreciated!
"We're going to be late. Get up."
Get up. The words repeated in her head, the pounding in her temples intensifying as she tried to process his request. It seemed simple enough, open her eyes and move herself onto the floor and into a shower, but for some reason, moving seemed a lot more complicated then just that. Everything seemed to hurt, her head, her cheekbone, her jaw, but nothing compared to between her legs. It ached there, worse, it felt sticky, hot, wrong. She wanted nothing more then to bring a hand down to explore the swollen folds of her skin, to wipe the sweat of her body and the viscosity of his semen away, to make sure that it wasn't broken beneath it. That she hadn't disappeared. That it was still her.
Sometimes, she wished she would wake up and find her body gone. Sometimes, she wished she would wake up and just feel nothing. Emptiness, that was what she craved.
"I said get up, Rachel. Please? I don't want to fight with you this morning, you have that test anyway, and I still haven't found the right song for our Glee assignment. Please get up?"
He was being kind this morning. Not unusual for the morning after a night like the one they'd had, but still, something in his voice reeked of more then desperation to be on time to school. There was a fear tinging the rich baritone that she rarely heard anymore, and it was that vulnerability that finally opened her gaze to his and force her body up from the warmth of the bed.
"Sorry," she sounded hoarse, but her voice was only a little hollow today. She hid it well now, long enough had they been together, long enough that she knew better. "I'm up, I just need to shower, I-"
Words escaped her when she stood, when the weight of his abuse hit her and the rest of her sentence caught in her throat, lodged there like ice. It hurt. He seemed to notice her wince and in a flash he was beside her, his arm strong around her small shoulders, his fingers guiding- rather then bruising. "Let me help you," he was saying, but all she heard was, "we have to hide this." He led her to her bathroom, like many times he'd done before, and set her in front of her vanity so he could turn the shower on for her, so he wouldn't have to look at what he'd done. He was dressed already, the monster hidden away beneath a facade of skinny denim and blue button ups, his hair immaculate, the scent of his shower and cologne still hanging in the air. He'd straightened her room, set the causalities of their fight back to their rightful places (mostly just stuffed animals from her youth, but also a picture of the two of them, and a broken hand mirror which was now glaring up at her from the trash), and made his side of the bed, stripped off the pillowcase that had been stained with her blood and his sweat and their shame. Rachel stared at herself blankly in the mirror, her vacant gaze taking in the bruises, her fingertips ghosting over the makeup bag on the smooth surface of the counter. No one would notice. No one ever did.
He had returned for her, the steam of the shower was filling up their space and felt slightly claustrophobic, not helped by the feel of his hands on her shoulders, his own piercing stare boring into hers. "I'm sorry, Rachel." The words were soft, tender, and she knew without having to look at him that he was remorseful. He always was. "I shouldn't have...I just lost my temper. I shouldn't have, not with you, not again. Forgive me?"
Her nod was curt, but her gaze didn't lift from her reflection. His grip tightened slightly and she let out a tiny, audible breath, immediately snapping her eyes to his. "Say it, please?"
"I forgive you."
Satisfied, he released his grasp on her and helped her to her feet, towards the still streaming water of her shower, where he tugged the robe from her body, wincing at the sight of her bare flesh. It didn't escape her notice, she looked down, determined not to cry as she nodded towards the door. "I'll be out in a second, can you find my backpack?" His cue to leave, her subtle dismissal of him, not forceful, just routine. He gave a quick jerk of his head and leaned in to kiss her, so gently that she barely felt it, yet enough to remind her that she was his and his alone. To remind her how precarious a position she had in his life. As easy as it was for him to kiss her, it was for him to hurt her. She had known, always, that he had grown up in a rough home. His mother had been silent and cold, his father a storm of a presence, demanding perfection that could never be achieved from his sons, punishing them ruthlessly for their failures. His older brother had been lucky enough to escape to LA, lucky enough to find a way out of that home and into the homes of others by epitomizing the perfection on TV that he had never been able to achieve in real life.
She forgave him because he knew not what he did.
"I love you." He paused at the doorway to look back at her battered, naked flesh. "Always, Rachel. You deserve more than me."
She deserved exactly what he was. She would never be perfect either.
"I love you too, Blaine," her whisper seemed to disappear into the steam. "I love you too."
