Blaine is in the hospital for just over a week. Nine days, over 200 long hours of Cooper's bad jokes, awkward looks and conversations with his mom, his dad standing quietly behind her chair, unable to make eye contact. And when visiting hours are over, staring at the wall. Lots of staring at the wall, trying to stay awake, to not see the boys behind his eyelids.

When he is discharged, the ride home is silent and uncomfortable. Blaine leans against Cooper, who pats him on the knee, and watches his dad's eye flit from the road to the rear view mirror. Blaine thinks he reads sympathy on his face, pity in his eyes, but he chalks it up to the painkillers settling into his system, weighing him down to his bones.

Dinner is another quiet affair. Blaine doesn't feel much like talking, still heavy from the painkillers and lethargic from the week in bed. Cooper keeps throwing worried looks at him. His mom is determined to fill the silence with idle chatter, but when she mentions Blaine making up for missed schoolwork, he is immediately all ears.

The thought of going back, of trying to blend into the background again, of the rumors that must be flying from his week away. He has thought several times about calling his date, Kyle, to get an update on how bad things are at school, but he can't dial the numbers without his hands starting to shake, his heart pounding uncomfortably.

In the end, he and Cooper convince their parents that Blaine can't return to his school, knowing that the boys who hurt him so badly are freely roaming the halls. Three days after he is released from the hospital, his mom makes an appointment at a private school nearby and takes him back to his school to empty his locker. When she pulls into the parking lot, his heart starts racing and he struggles not to cry in front of his mother. They pass over where it happened, where the concrete is still stained with his blood. He closes his eyes and lets his mother direct him toward the front door.

He limps down the quiet hallways, the boot on his ankle echoing. When the bell rings and the hallways fill with chattering students, he closes his eyes and latches onto his mom.

"It's alright, Blaine," she says, smoothing a hand down his back. "Let's just get in and get out, alright?"

He nods, ducking around students and teachers, using a shaking hand on his combination lock. With help, he manages to pull his notebooks into his bag, plucking the photo of him and Cooper from the inside of the door, putting it carefully into his jacket pocket. When he looks up, he notices a folded piece of notebook paper sticking from the vent at the top of the door.

Curious, he pulls it down and pockets it alongside the photograph.

"Done?"

He nods again, sniffling, wiping his sleeve over an embarrassed face. "Yeah. Let's go."

He hikes his bag higher on his shoulder, ignoring the kids pointing and whispering around him.

"Later, Anderson," calls out a voice and Blaine stops in his tracks, his mom running into him from behind.

"Blaine?"

He drops his bag, shaking from head to toe, turning slowly.

It's him. The biggest one, Carter. The one who dragged Blaine away by his hair and handed his friend a bat, laughing. The smile on his face is entirely creepy and sends a shiver down Blaine's already shaky form. Mrs. Anderson frowns, putting her arm around Blaine's shaking shoulders, picking up his bag, leading him out of the school.

"Not enough evidence," she mutters angrily. "Your reaction should be evidence enough."

When they reach the doors, he vaults away from his mother, falling to his knees and grabs onto a tree to steady himself, doubled over, stomach heaving. When his stomach is empty, his mother gingerly helps him to stand and puts her arm back over his shoulders. He tucks his face into her neck, and let's her take him to the car.

Once buckled, he leans his face against the cool glass of the window. His breath leaves puffs of fog, condensation obscuring his view.

"We'll postpone the meeting with the Dalton headmaster," his mother's voice seems dim, he can barely hear her over the rush of blood in his ears, his still pounding heart. "You should take a few more days off I think."

He nods, numb, tears pricking at his eyes. He can see the face, can almost feel the fingers tangling in his hair, the scrape of concrete against his skin.

By the time they arrive home, Blaine feels on the verge of panic. Before the car is even put into park, he throws off his seat belt and jumps out, running as best he can into the house. tears streaming down his face.

He limps past his father, past Cooper, who calls out "Hey, how'd it go?"

The question goes unanswered, unheard, as he takes the stairs two at a time, slamming his bedroom door shut and falling face first onto his bed, sobbing frantically into his pillow.

He hates this - feeling this hopelessness. It's been almost two weeks since he was a victim of gay bashing, at the age of 14; he shouldn't have to be dealing with something like this.

"It isn't fair!" he screams into his bedding.

A soft knock sounds at the door and Blaine pulls his pillow down over his head.

The door creaks open.

"Can I come in?"

"Go away, Coop," Blaine moans through his tears. "Please go away."

The bed dips next to him. He peeks an eye out and sees Cooper laying back casually on his bed, arms supporting his head, looking back at Blaine.

"Nope," he says, smile evident in his voice.

Blaine sniffs, trying to control his tears; he hates crying in front of his brother.

But his brother knows him best, knows that when he's upset, he yearns to have someone around. Blaine isn't much of a social creature, but he craves human contact, a tangible reminder that he is around people who love him.

Cooper rubs his hand lightly up and down his back. Neither of them talk - they don't have to.

Eventually, Blaine's tears subside and he peeks out from his pillow.

"Sorry," he mutters sheepishly, blushing.

"Don't be sorry. Just talk to me. Whatever you need, okay?"

"'Kay. Thanks, Coop."

"S'what brothers are for, right?"

Blaine smiles and sniffs again. Cooper flips onto his stomach, mimicking Blaine's position, his arms tucking under his pillow, face turned toward his brother.

"So what happened?"

Blaine sighs, "We went to clean out my locker and he - he was there. The main one - Carter." A shiver runs over his body and he presses his face back into his pillow. "I just want it to stop."

Cooper hums. "Well, you're transferring to Dalton right? Fresh start. You can just be the mysterious new kid."

"Yeah the mysterious new kid with a cast and a limp. That's definitely what I want," Blaine mutters dryly.


"Come on, Blaine, running late. Running very, very late," Cooper runs around the house collecting his textbooks and shoving them into his bag.

"I'm just - hey can you come help me with this?" Blaine calls from his bedroom. With some trouble, he has managed his button-up white shirt. But the tie. He wants to burn it for all the grief it's giving him.

"Here, here," Cooper sweeps behind him, deftly fixing the tie and holding out Blaine's blazer and bag. Blaine studies himself in the mirror, his new uniform, pressed and perfect for blending in. It is a bit of a struggle to fit the sleeve over his cast, but he pulls it off. He brings his good hand up to his hair, testing the hold on the gel he begged his mother for. No one is getting their hands in his hair.

"Westerville is only sort of on the way to Columbus. Very late," Cooper reminds him. They leave New Albany and make the twenty minute drive to Westerville, Blaine fiddling nervously with the strap on his bag. "Alright," Cooper says, pulling up through the main gate. "If anyone gives you shit, just call me okay? I'm like a half hour down the road." He sets his hand on Blaine's shoulder, squeezing lightly. Blaine just nods, staring up at the building before him, chewing on his lip.

He takes a deep breath and steps out of the car. "Thanks for the ride."

"Sure thing. See you at 3!"

He tries to remember the path he and his mother took the day before, the class-to-class tour, mentally mapping the quickest way to get in and out of the hallway. He knows about Dalton's zero-tolerance policy - it's the main reason he's here at all - but it doesn't stop him from being constantly on edge, at the ready to run, as best he can with his one good foot.

He stares at the ground as he walks, doesn't want to make eye contact, as if he has gay bashed written on his forehead, and everyone will know everything about him, and will make their own assumptions about what they don't know.

He is staring at the schedule in his hand, trying desperately to find his first class, when he bumps into a student and stumbles backwards, looking up in fear, "Sorry. Sorry."

"It's okay. Blaine, right?"

When the flash of panic subsides, he recognizes Wes, the boy who gave him the tour the previous day.

"Y-yeah," he mutters, looking back down. He regards the paper in his hand and looks helplessly up at Wes and his group of friends. "I can't—"

"Let me remind you," Wes says, smile reaching his eyes, taking the schedule from Blaine and putting a friendly hand on his shoulder.

His first day at Dalton isn't so bad.