Finn didn't say to Carl how much he was looking forward to Saturday's open mic, but as with most things, he didn't figure he had to. Carl just knew how Finn was feeling. He wondered if that was the case with most Tops and their boys, or if it was a talent Carl had. And, after all, he'd been away for a couple weeks, so it made sense he'd want to reconnect.

But when they walked in and set down their guitars in the back of the room, a quick sweep of the coffeehouse revealed no Patrick.

"Is Patrick coming this week?" Finn asked Irene at the counter. She shrugged noncommittally.

"Wait and see," she said.

But Patrick never showed. It made everything about the evening a little less bright, like all the color had been washed out of the situation. The music was dull and lifeless, and he wasn't the only one who felt it.

"We're missing something tonight," Carl said, after their lackluster performance. Finn sighed and nodded, and Carl tracked him carefully with his eyes. "Or someone, hmm?"

"Maybe," Finn allowed. "I don't know why I care. He's not my boyfriend or anything."

Carl nodded. "Sometimes it isn't like that. But that doesn't mean it's not important, or that you don't need it."

Finn shifted his legs under the table, trying to get comfortable. "Do you think Irene might know something about him? Maybe how I could get in touch with him?" He rolled his eyes at himself. "God, I don't know... that sounded a little desperate."

Carl's expression was still kind, but ruthless. Finn quailed under its intensity. "Well, Christopher, maybe you're feeling a little desperate."

Maybe I am.He stood, needing to move, needing to... yeah, he knew what he needed to do. "I should go home to Kurt," he said, trying to stuff down the tension as best as he could.

"Is that what you need?"

"No," he said, gritting his teeth. "But it's what I have right now."

It wasn't like things with Kurt weren't good. It wasn't like they didn't give each other amazing things. But sometimes, he wished Kurt wanted what Puck had wanted. Kurt didn't need that kind of submission, the deep surrender of his self. He gave himself up gracefully; he seldom needed Finn to take it from him. But sometimes I want to.He didn't know for certain if Patrick needed what Kurt needed, or what Puck needed - or something all his own. He just wanted to find out.

He made his way back to the counter and waited for all the customers to clear out to their own tables. Irene gave him a keen look as he shifted back and forth between his feet.

"Too much coffee... boy?" she said quietly. Finn blinked at her.

"Uh..." He glanced at Carl, but he was paying attention to the stage. "I don't drink coffee... ma'am."

"Hmmm," she said, nodding her head in understanding. "Something else, then."

"Do you know if he'll be back next week?" he said. "I just need to talk to him."

She gave him a fixed stare. "Oh, honey, that's not what you need to do with that boy. You know better than that."

"Yeah," he said, a little weakly. "I guess not. Um - so...?"

Irene started in on making a hot chocolate, steaming the milk. "Patrick's put his trust in me to keep his life a secret. I'm not going to betray his trust, any more than I would use a name other than Derek for your man, here. Just as I'm not going to ask your real name... Christopher."

Finn nodded understanding. "Well, in that case, could I leave him a note?"

"I'm not likely to see him again until next weekend," she said doubtfully, but at Finn's desperate pleading glance, she sighed. "Fine. Knock yourself out. I'll play mailman for you two. But I draw the line at booking motel rooms."

Finn thanked her a little too profusely, and she glared at him as she passed him a blank piece of paper and a pen.

Patrick, he wrote, as neatly as he could, I missed you at the open mic this week. Hope everything is okay. I thought I'd leave you my email address just in case you want to talk some more. Take care, Christopher.

She took it from him and tucked it in the pocket of her apron. "Not promising anything here," she warned him.

"I know." But Finn felt a little better already.

000

"Got plans for the weekend?" Jeff swung through Blaine's open door as he was stuffing the last of his clothes into his bag.

"My dad got tickets for Fiddler on the Roof for tonight." Blaine shrugged. "It's not my favorite, but Dad's excited."

"Have fun, man. And let me know how you like the show. My sister's going next week." He nodded at Blaine and took off up the hall; Blaine could hear him rapping his hands on closed doors as he went.

Blaine eyed his guitar, resting in the corner next to his desk. He wasn't going to get to play at the open mic, but that didn't mean he couldn't play at his dad's house. He hadn't actually played guitar for his dad at all since he'd progressed beyond the D, C and G chords he'd needed to play a simplified version of Yellow Submarine back in middle school.

He grabbed the guitar, and his bag, and booked it to the front circle to meet Thomas before he could change his mind about music. Before he could think too hard about the little knot of unease in his stomach that flared when he thought about missing the open mic.

About not getting to see Christopher.

What the hell was that about? They hadn't done... anything. Blaine knew that he didn't have a crush on Christopher. All he knew was that the time he'd spent in Christopher's arms last week had given him an awesome sense of security that had carried him through the better part of the week. He hadn't needed the coke until Thursday night, which was unusual. The other Warblers had even noticed, offering up some good natured ribbing about Blaine having finally met a hot boy. Blaine just waved them off, because he didn't know how to explain that it had nothing at all to do with sex.

It's like, sometimes it's just too much to handle, he thought, trying to sort it out in his head. But it wasn't, with Christopher, because he took care of it. He made things simple.

The thought kept gnawing at him over the miles, though, that taking care of itwasn't all of what had felt so right. But he couldn't find the clarity he craved, and he finally decided that nothing was going to get solved in the car with Thomas, so he filed the nagging thoughts away in his brain for later.

If his normal routine held up, he'd dream about it all that night anyway.

000

Monday Blaine was jittery enough that his English teacher asked if he'd had a triple shot in addition to his normal coffee.

That night, his dreams were plagued by the mohawked boy, a vibrant red bird and a yellow canary, and a tiny blonde child with verbal skills far advanced for her size. He woke, heart pounding out of his chest and his breath coming fast, just after 2 am.

He never went back to sleep.

000

Tuesday afternoon he fell asleep in Geometry. That earned him two demerits and half an hour of one-on-one work with Mr. Fishbein before he was allowed to go to Warblers practice.

Wes gave him the stink-eye all through rehearsal, Jeff just looked concerned, and Blaine ended up taking his dinner to go because he couldn't handle his salisbury steak and mashed potatoes under the council's scrutiny.

There were no birds in his dreams that night. No mohawked boy. But the little girl was there, older, her hand warm and tiny in his as she led him through a maze. Where are we going?his dream-self asked, but she didn't respond until the maze opened into a clearing filled with light.

Then she smiled at him. I'm taking you to papa, was all she said.

He startled awake again, but felt oddly calm, if not more than a little puzzled.

He just didn't understand his brain sometimes.

000

Wednesday started better. He made it to breakfast and his first class on time, but then he started feeling anxious and jittery, and he couldn't focus. He kept clicking his pen, drummed his fingers on his desk. Shifted positions so many times he felt like a pretzel. Ms. Kennard kept glancing at him sideways as she worked the class through the first part of their daily translation. Blaine usually loved his Latin class, but he couldn't make his brain focus, and the words just looked like gibberish on the paper in front of him.

He tossed his pen onto his desk and sighed deeply, running aggravated hands through his hair.

Ms. Kennard absolutely glaredat him and gestured to the door with her head. "Work quietly, please, for a few minutes," she told the rest of the class, and Blaine followed her into the hall, hands jammed into his pants pocket.

"Are you all right, Blaine?" She peered at him from under her stylishly too-long bangs, her face full of concern. "You seem anxious today."

Blaine tried to shake his head, to reassure her that he was just fine, but he couldn't do anything but stand there and glare at the floor.

"Do you need to go to the nurse?" Her voice was gentle, and Blaine watched through a fog as she reached out and touched his elbow. He jumped at the contact, blinked his eyes, felt warmth and wetness on his cheeks. He had to get out of there before he broke down sobbing in front of his teacher.

"N-no," he managed to choke out. "I c-can't b-breathe."

"Here," she said, guiding him over to the wall. "Why don't you sit a minute. I'll be right back."

Blaine slid down the wall and sat with his knees under his chin, listening to the squeak of the door as Ms. Kennard moved into and then out of the classroom with efficiency. She had his backpack and his books, and the box of tissues off her desk. "Here, honey. You're all drippy."

He took the tissue she offered, and dabbed at his face. He almost laughed when Ms. Kennard tucked her legs under her skirt and curled next to him on the floor.

"You don't have to-" he waved his hand at her, but couldn't find the rest of his sentence. "Class," he finally worked out, tilting his head back towards the room.

"I'm sure they can handle themselves. I don't usually end up with party kids in Latin." She regarded him for a cool minute, watched him use a second, and then a third, tissue to try and stem the flood of tears that were just falling from his eyes. He wasn't even actively crying, he just . . . well. He couldn't stop, was the problem.

"I'll be okay, really." He saw doubt flicker across her face, but she hid it well.

"Why don't you go on back to your room? I can call down to the office and have you excused for the day."

Blaine almost told her that Andersons don't skip class, but he just knewthat he'd be a mess for the rest of the day. He felt raw, and too open to the world, and like everyone could see the jumbled mess of him.

"Okay," he finally agreed, and worked on pretending to put himself back together. "I don't know-" he swiped his hand at his face, trying not to rub his swollen eyes even though he really wanted to. "I'm sorry," he finally sighed. "I don't know what happened."

"It's okay, Blaine. We all have days like this. Just be kind to yourself, okay? I'll see you in class tomorrow." She smiled at him and patted him on the shoulder before turning back to the classroom.

Blaine trudged slowly down the hall and out to the front of the academic building, squinted in the rare sight of February sun glinting on pristine snow, and contemplated his options. His room was cozy. He could burrow under his blankets with a book or a movie and forget the world. Or he could do a line of coke and let it carry him through his day, flying on artificial confidence.

Or he could take the bus down to Columbus, hope that Irene was working, and that just maybe she knew somethingabout Christopher.

Because Blaine knew that if he had to wait until Saturday night for answers, he might actually go crazy.

000

The coffeehouse was completely dead at ten-thirty in the morning, tables and chairs set up on the stage. But Irene was there, seated at a table, working on a stack of paperwork. She actually looked surprised to see him.

"Well, what do you know, Patrick," she said, leaning back in her chair and regarding him thoughtfully. "I have a message for you."

"A - you do?" Blaine stared at the paper she dug out of her apron and placed in his hands. "Who...?"

"Just read the damn thing, kid," she sighed, and returned to her paperwork. "Help yourself to coffee."

Blaine didn't dare; he was already jumpy enough, but he said thanked Irene anyway. He unfolded the paper and read Christopher's brief note. Because it was from Christopher, of course - who else would have sent him a message? - and it was incredible how grateful he felt, just for that little morsel of thoughtfulness. On top of that gratitude, he also felt confused (why would anyone, especially a boy like Christopher, who's clearly got someone in his life, want to take care of me?) and guilty (he has better things to do than waste his time on this, I'm a basket case) and excited (he really wants me to email him?). But none of those feelings stopped him from being... happy.

"Not a bad message, then," he heard, and looked up to see Irene watching him with an amused expression. It was almost a smile.

"No," he said softly. "Not a bad message at all." He glanced around, shifted his bag from one shoulder to the other. "Do you, um, have wifi?"

Irene kept looking at him, and slowly raised an eyebrow. "You think I could stay in business without it? All those university kids needing their caffeine and Internet." She snorted, muttering, "Do I have wifi?"

Blaine settled himself at one of the empty tables and pulled his laptop out. He was still getting used to the difference of the Mac; he'd had his old Dell for so long, he knew the keyboard with his eyes closed. But it had conked out right before Christmas break, and had taken half of his English paper with it. He hadn't expected to get the newest Mac model, certainly not from his father, Mr. PC-is-the-only-way. But the glint in Thomas' eye on Christmas morning had told Blaine plentyabout who had done the Christmas shopping that year.

It took him three tries to get connected to the network because he kept clicking his mouse wrong, but once he was in he opened his email and sent off a brief message to Christopher.

Date: Wed Jan 27, 2010
From: patrick2010atgmaildotcom
To: christopherincolumbusatgmail dotcom
Subject: your message at Java the Hut

Christopher,
I guess I want to say thank you for the message, but really I should say I came looking for you in the middle of this week, after being way more disappointed than I'd expected to be to miss the open mic on Saturday. I'm not even sure how to say this, but I think you did something to me, or I did something to myself... I'm kind of freaking out, and I think you can fix it. If that makes sense, you're way ahead of me. Anyway... now you have my email address, and if you're at all willing to talk, drop me an email.
Thanks again,
Patrick

He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, unsure of what to do next. He didn't want to head back to school yet, but he felt weird just sitting there. He figured maybe he could do some homework or something, at least until he settled a little more. But he could feel Irene's eyes boring holes in the side of his face, so he turned and looked at her.

"Everything okay?" he asked, trying to lighten his tone.

She considered him obliquely, not quite staring at his face, but giving him some space to squirm and fidget under her gaze. "I think you should be the one to tell me that," she suggested.

He started to say that he was fine, because that was his default response whenever anybodyasked, but he felt like he couldn't lie to Irene. "I'm, um... having a bad day?"

"Are you asking me or telling me?" Irene shuffled her papers in front of her, settling them into a neat stack before getting up and moving over to sit across from Blaine at his table, carrying her industrial-strength-sized plastic coffee mug with her.

"T-telling you. I'm having a bad day." He felt like he used to when he was a kid, when Marisol would catch him and Santana doing something they weren't really supposed to, a little embarrassed and a lot penitent, even though he wasn't sure what there was to apologize for.

"I can see that." She tilted her head, regarding him cryptically. "Tell me what's bad about it."

Blaine twisted his hands on the table. "I don't know if I can explain it. I was in class, and I was all over the place, I couldn't focus, I couldn't do anything... and then I was crying and I couldn't breathe. I've been-" he sighed, not really wanting to tell Irene too much but also feeling like he couldn't nottell her. "I've been having these weird dreams, about this boy I met back in the fall. We, um..." He had to pause then, to try and fight the blush creeping up his face.

She beckoned with one hand. "Come on. Whatever it is, just say it. You'd have to go a long way to find something that would embarrass me."

"We kissed, and, uh, made out." His cheeks felt blazing hot; he hatedbeing embarrassed.

Irene's lips twitched. "I think we might have done things like that back in the stone age. Yeah."

He shook his head. "It wasn't just that. I mean, that was, um... really good. But the way he was with me, like he wanted to take something from me? That was really hot."

She wasn't looking at him like he had two heads. On the contrary, she was nodding. "And you - you wanted to give, what he wanted to take?"

Blaine felt like all the things he hadn't been able to quite reach since that night were suddenly a lot closer, even if he couldn't touch them yet. At least now he could see them, feel them pull together into nothing more than Irene's question and his answer, sure and solid on his tongue.

"Yes," he said with certainty.

She nodded again, and he thought he detected satisfaction on her face, and possibly - was that pride? He wasn't sure; it was too fleeting. "Well, Patrick, you can be sure you're not the only one who understands about the give and the take. It can be compelling, and meaningful, under the right circumstances. But... this boy, you're seeing him? The one from the bar?"

Blaine shook his head rapidly. "No, no," he stammered. "It was just that night. I don't... I don't even know his name."

"Ah." Irene looked sympathetic. "So you're not really getting what you need, here."

"I don't- I don't even knowwhat I need. So I guess I'm not getting it." Sometimes he felt like he was thinking and speaking in some kind of weird code.

"And you think this other boy... Christopher? You think he has some answers to your questions? Maybe he can solve this problem for you?" She scowled at him when he nodded. "What makes you think you can trust him? You barely know him. He's not even telling you his real name."

"He doesn't know my real name, either," Blaine retorted sharply before shrinking back into his chair under the steel of Irene's glance.

To his surprise, she chuckled. "Yes, boy, I think you've got some good idea about what you might need. And you're probably right, that Christopher can help you with that. I'll tell you, I know his friend - Derek? He's a good resource for this, too. Don't overlook him, if you need some clarity. I'd trust him, and I suppose anyone he's... close with, the way he and Christopher appear to be. I'd say he's probably trustworthy too." She gave him a wry grimace. "No matter what name he uses. Not everybody is free to be honest about themselves."

He leaned forward in his chair, rested his hands flat on the table. "Irene?"

"Yes, honey?"

"People are always telling me I need to figure things out on my own. But these things I'm feeling? I don't understand, and everyone else seems to know. Please. What isthis?" He knew he was close to whining, but he didn't know how to make himself stop.

She reached across the table and took his shaking hands in her steady ones. "I'm guessing you feel lost, confused sometimes, like you don't know which way is up. You're jittery, like you didn't have enough sleep. Maybe you're having trouble focusing at school. You're on the edge of tears all the time, and nothing seems to touch it. You've got a short temper, and even though you don't mean to be, you're resistant to help, even rude sometimes." She inclined her head. "Am I close?"

Blaine swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat, around the absolute relief that someone really didknow what was going on with him. "Yes."

"All right. So what if I told you that there were people who struggle with these feelings, just like you are right now? And, in addition, there are a whole second group of people who are having similar feelings, but for the opposite reason? Youneed someone to help you focus, Patrick, to give you the care and attention you deserve, and when you can't do it on your own, to give you the discipline you need. Other people desire to give that focus, to care for and attend to people like you. And to supply the discipline, when it's needed."

"D-discipline? L-like, um... sp-spanking?" Blaine remembered being a little boy, doing something his father thought he shouldn't, and the unnerving feeling of being turned over his father's knee.

One eyebrow went up. "Hmm. Funny you should jump right to that, but... yes, many people respond well to that kind of discipline. But keep in mind, Patrick, this situation we're describing is consensual, between equals. It's not the same as an adult disciplining a child."

"Oh." Blaine thought about that for a moment, about what it might feel like if he askedsomeone to do that to him. He wondered if it would settle him the same way Christopher's arms around him had. His whole body felt warm at the idea of it.

"It's by no means the only form of discipline in a power exchange relationship, though it is remarkably straightforward and simple. I know plenty of adults who fit both descriptions, giver and receiver, and both benefit from spanking, or being spanked." She watched his face carefully. "Does that surprise you?"

He laughed nervously. "All of this surprises me." He closed his eyes for a moment, focused hard, and looked at her again. "I never knew . . ." His voice trailed off, but he didn't know how to finish his thought so he just left it there.

She seemed to understand. "Well, tell me this. Your boy in the bar. How do you think it would be if he spanked you?"

Blaine shivered involuntarily and heard himself whimper a little bit. "G-good," he finally managed to squeak, to his own surprise. It was amazing what happened when you stopped thinking quite so much.

Irene nodded again. "That's what I figured. And Christopher, he seems to understand something about this, too. I'm sure Derek wouldn't mind me saying he does, too. And me."

He wasn't surprised, by now, to hear that about Irene, and he nodded. "So... now what? I just wait, until I hear from Christopher? And when I do, what do I even tellhim?"

"Oh, honey." She patted his hand gently. "Trust me, he already knows. And yes, you'll have to wait for him to get your message - but, judging by the expression on that boy's face when he came in looking for you on Saturday, you ain't gonna have to wait long."

Blaine looked at his computer's screen saver, thought about the books in his bag. "Is it okay if I hang out here for a while? I'll be quiet; I have homework I can do."

She held out her hands. "Be my guest. You can see how busy it is around here. I'll be in and out of the back, but you just let me know if you decide there's anything you need."

Blaine nodded, and pulled out his Latin book and the translation from that morning. The slow precision of the language usually settled him, and it didn't make his brain hurt like geometry did. Irene glanced at his book, and nodded at him.

"Latin, hm?" She quirked an eyebrow at him.

"Yes," he said, pausing, before his gut told him to say more. "Ma'am."

"Yes," she said almost to herself before resting a hand on his shoulder. "You're a smart boy, Patrick. And a good boy."

Blaine didn't know why, but her words made him feel like jello inside.

000

Finn felt strange all morning. Not sick, just weird, like something was wrong and he couldn't figure out what.

He checked in with Puck and Kurt and Rachel, ducked into the men's room to call and talk to Carl, and even stopped Quinn in the hall to ask about how she and the baby were doing, but everyone was okay. Everyone except for him.

On the way to Glee, he was so distracted that he tripped over his own stupid feet, and went flying halfway down the stairs, which was not only embarrassing, it also reallyhurt.

"I think I need to go home," he told Mr. Schue, rubbing at a knot on his elbow from where he'd hit it on the railing.

"I don't think that's a problem, Finn." Mr. Schue said. He caught Puck and Kurt making worried faces at him from the last row of chairs. Puck climbed down the risers, digging his keys out of his leather jacket and passing them to Finn.

"I can get a ride home with Kurt," he said. "It's making funny noises, but it should get you home."

"Thanks, man," Finn muttered. "I don't know what's going on. Maybe I just need some sleep."

"I'll be at Kurt's for dinner. See you there, if you're feeling up to it." Puck watched him with concern as Finn took his backpack and got out of the building as fast as he could.

Being gone from school didn't help at all. It just made things worse. Without the predictability of classes and bells, he was utterly lost.

He drove by Carl's office twice, even though he knew Carl had clients all afternoon. He thought about getting coffee and a donut at Pat's, but given the way he was, jittery and frantic like he needed a damn spanking, he didn't think sugar orcaffeine would help matters at all. Finally, he just gave up and went home.

The house was quiet; his mom was at work. He dropped his backpack inside the door, kicked off his sneakers, and padded up to his room, powering his computer on out of habit more than anything on his way to lie down.

He settled back against his pillow thought about Patrick, about how restless he'd been since missing him on Saturday. Carl had noticed, of course, and they talked about it; Carl was trying to give him a little space to figure things out, but Finn could feel his own distress impacting Carl as well.

It all just pretty much sucked.

He got up, scraped his chair back from the desk, and tucked his frame into the empty space as he opened his browser and clicked on his email account, the one that he used as Christopher.

At the top was an email, sent that morning. From Patrick.

Just reading the header was enough to make him more relaxed. He could feel the jittery energy flowing out of his head, making him tingly all over. He knew that feeling. He knew what it meant, and what would probably happen to him if he didn't do anything about it. I'd better take an ibuprofen now, he thought, and sighed. I guess a headache's inevitable.

He read fast, taking in half the words. Then he read again, slower, his brain two steps ahead thinking out his actions.

Patrick was in Columbus. Or, he had been that morning.

He hit Reply, and typed a response as fast as he could.

Date: Wed Jan 27, 2010
From: christopherincolumbusatgmail dotcom
To: patrick2010atgmaildotcom
Subject: Re: your message at Java the Hut

Where are you now? I could be in Columbus in 2 hours, if you want to meet. Talk, maybe have dinner?

I'm leaving now, don't reply to this. Call me (419) 683-1201.

-Christopher

He logged off his email, but left the computer on, and fired off texts to Puck, Kurt, and Carl to let them know where he was going before hopping into Puck's truck and heading off towards Columbus.

He never heard from Patrick, which made him feel a little foolish, driving all the way down to Columbus on a whim for some kid he barely knew. He wondered what Tess would have said about that. At the very least, he supposed that he could talk with Irene a little; maybe she had a better handle on Patrick than Finn did.

He parallel parked carefully on the street outside of Java the Hut, locked the truck, and stood on the sidewalk for a minute, trying to settle himself enough to walk through the door.

The light was warm in the late afternoon, and there were a handful of customers scattered at tables, reading or working on computers as they drank their coffees. Irene was at the counter, wiping it down with a damp cloth. She looked up as he stepped into the room.

"Hot chocolate?" she asked, pulling a large cup off the stack by the milk steamer and pumping chocolate into the bottom before he could reply.

"Please," he said, leaning against the counter. "Thank you for passing my message along."

"Ah," she said over the sound of the steamer. "You got his email, huh? That boy's been wound tighter than a spring all day long."

"I wrote back, told him I was coming." He turned and glanced around the room again. "I missed him, didn't I?"

Irene topped his drink with a mound of whipped cream and a healthy drizzle of chocolate syrup. "Nah," she said, pushing his cup across the counter. "He's been here all day. Try the men's room."

Finn reached for his wallet, waited for Irene to ring in his drink, but she just patted his arm. "It's on the house today, honey. Just-" she broke off and held his gaze. "Be careful, okay? That boy... he's more fragile than he looks."

"I know," Finn said, even though he hadn't known it until right then. "I'll be careful. I promise."

He sipped at his hot chocolate and walked slowly toward the men's room, calling out as he opened the door. "Patrick? It's me-"

He stopped, the door half-open behind him and his cup shaking in his hand. Patrick was hunched over the sink, tapping something on the countertop with a razorblade, and when he looked up at Finn his eyes were large and guilty.

Finn's mind went reeling; He set his cup down on the counter and reached over, grabbing the razor and throwing it in the trash. His next move was towards Patrick's wrist, taking it hard in his hand and pulling the other boy upright.

"What the hell?" he growled, using his height and his body to propel Patrick around and back towards the door. "Don't you know that shit can killyou?"

Patrick gasped as his back hit the door, and Finn felt him go instantly still. He took a deep breath, trying to control his temper, because he didn't want to scare Patrick. Not exactly. But this stuff... his mother had always told him that the worst thing he could do was to try drugs, and she'd actually told him more than he'd learned in health class in school. He didn't just know what happened, he was scaredof what drugs could do.

"It's not the first time you've done it, is it?" he asked, keeping his voice even. Patrick hesitated, and Finn barked, "Answer me."

"N-no," Patrick stuttered. "I've been... using for a couple months now. Since... since November."

"How often?"

"Maybe... a couple times a week. But I can stop, I really -"

"That's right." Finn nodded decisively, and took the boy's chin in his hand, forcing their eyes to connect. Patrick was still as stone under his gaze, his eyes wide and stricken. "You can stop. And you're going to, right now.Do you hear me?"

"I - yes." Even with that admission, Finn could feel the tension pouring off of Patrick, his body letting go under Finn's hands. He let out a shuddering breath, still staring up at Finn. "I want to... I mean, I don't want to do it anymore, I just... don't be mad, please, I need..."

Finn drew in a surprised breath at the awareness in Patrick's eyes. He'd seen the neediness before, but this? This was new. Patrick knewwhat this was all about, now. He knew, and... he wanted it. All of Finn's anger and frustration slipped away, leaving only a desire to make it better.

"I'm not mad, Patrick," Finn said. He took his hand. "I know, it's hard to do it on your own. And... I can help with that. If you want."

The relieved, grateful look Patrick gave him was like perfect nourishment to Finn's own heart. "God. You would?"

Finn nodded. "If you'll let me. It's a little... well, unusual..."

"I know," Patrick replied softly. He stared at their joined hands. "Irene explained it to me. The - the discipline. I think... I think I want it?" Finn saw his eyes glittering with unshed tears. "I'm scared, though."

"You don't have to be scared, man. I'll take care of it." Finn touched Patrick's shoulder, and watched him yearning toward him, just so needy and hurting that Finn couldn't do anything but take him in his arms and hold him. "You're going to be all right."

Patrick leaned his weight against Finn, letting him hold him up. "How can you be so sure?" he asked, muffled against Finn's shirt.

Finn had to smile to himself, thinking of where he'd started, these few months ago. "Because I've taken care of other guys, like this. Because I've got somebody, too, who takes care of me."

"You - ?" Patrick jerked back, his hazel eyes wide. Then understanding dawned. "Derek."

"Yes," Finn nodded. "You, uh, probably know by now that that's not his real name."

Patrick nodded, returning his gaze thoughtfully. Then he added, "Patrick's not my real name either."

"Oh," Finn said. "Yeah. Christopher... well, it's my middle name. My dad's name. He died in the military, when I was a baby."

"I'm sorry," Patrick said softly. "My dad - um. He lives in Columbus with his partner. He's gay, too."

"Really?" Finn was kind of intrigued by that idea. "I always wondered what my dad would have thought, to find out I'm gay. If he would be ashamed of me, or embarrassed or angry or proud. I guess I'll never know."

"I'm sure he'd be proud," Patrick said, then blushed and looked at the floor. "I mean... you're so... together. I can't imagine he would think less of you."

Finn thought he probably shouldn't be so pleased to have Patrick admiring him, and he knew it wasn't necessarily true, but the comment made him felt warm inside. He smiled gently at the boy. "This, what we're doing now. It's helping?"

Patrick nodded vigorously. "Just having you here, touching me. It... I feel so much calmer, like I can focus. Like things aren't so impossible."

Finn could feel it, but he could also still feel a lot of busy, uncertain energy flowing through Patrick. He ran a hand through Patrick's hair, along the back of his neck, down his back, and finally rested it, heavy and deliberate, at the base of his spine. Patrick's breath caught, and he made a noise of desperate anticipation.

"This is how things have been, with... my boys," Finn said. He tried not to feel like a total poser, as Patrick gazed up at him with adoring eyes, but he figured this was not the time or place to explain to Patrick about how it had been with Puck at the beginning and how they were now. "I'm in charge, now. When you need help, when you're lost or upset or if you can't figure out what to do, you come to me. I'm not inviting you; I'm telling you. This is what you do. If you don't, there will be consequences."

"Consequences," Patrick murmured, and glanced up at Finn, taking a deep breath. "A spanking?"

Finn nodded solemnly. "Sometimes."

Patrick was silent, thinking it over. "Does that really work?" he asked, knitting his brow.

"It really does," Finn said. It was still kind of amazing to him, how much of an effect it really had, when he did it with Kurt, and when Carl did it for him. And thinking about how things used to be with Puck - he tried not to let those memories distract him too much from what was going on here.

It's different,he told himself. Patrick wasn't his boyfriend, for one thing. He wasn't exactly sure how that was going to work, but the fact was, Patrick needed something from him, and he wanted to give it to him. Then he thought of another thing that was different.

"I'm not going to be there to help take care of you, at home, at school," Finn began.

"Dalton," Patrick said. He shifted a little where he stood. "I'm at Dalton Academy, in Westerville."

Finn paused, blinking, then nodded, holding Patrick a little closer, stroking his back in rhythm. "All right. At Dalton. But I know things can work, long distance. My... best friend has an arrangement like this. The man who takes care of him lives in California. They talk every day, and have occasional visits. And it works for them. So I know it's not ideal, but I believe I can do something for you."

Patrick leaned his head against Finn's chest with a troubled sigh. "Why..." He shook his head, and Finn touched his back again. "Why would you want to... bother with me?" he said finally. "You have a boyfriend. I feel like I can't be anything but a..." His sigh twisted Finn's heart a little tighter.

"A what?" Finn had to ask.

The last words came out in a whisper. "A... a burden."

He couldn't help it; Finn laughed, and he felt Patrick go stiff under his touch. Mistake,he chided himself, but he moved forward, taking Patrick's biceps firmly in two hands, and held him at arm's length.

"This, what you're feeling," Finn said clearly, not leaving any room for confusion. "The way you're wanting me, to take care of this, to handle the hard stuff. I want to do it for you. I need that. I need it, as much as you need it." His hands tightened, and Patrick's body went slack, his eyes flickering away.

"Look at me," Finn commanded, and Patrick's gaze snapped back up to his, unblinking. His jaw wobbled, then firmed, and the tears in his eyes did not fall. Finn felt unprecedented pride at this. As if it had anything to do with me.He took a calming breath, then took Patrick's jaw in one hand. Patrick shrank back just a little, then all at once, he relaxed, letting Finn hold him up.

"I want this," said Finn. "I'm here, asking you. Do you want me to take it from you?"

"Yes," Patrick whispered.

The word sent a shiver down Finn's spine. He held him more firmly. "Do you know what you need?"

"I- I th-think so. B-but I'm scared." Finn could feel Patrick starting to tense, to fight him.

"Tell me," Finn said, never moving his eyes from Patrick's.

"I think... um... god, I think I need... a spanking." His last words were so soft Finn had to strain to hear them. He nodded at the door.

"All right, then... you'd better lock the door. We don't want anyone interrupting us."

"Okay," Patrick said, turning to flip the lock on the bathroom door. It settled with a muted click. Patrick spun back around to face Finn.

Finn tried to keep his eyes soft. This boy looked terrified, and that wasn't what he wanted. And yet...

"You're not going to take any more of those drugs, not anymore," he said, holding out his hands. Patrick took them, clutching them tight.

"No," he promised. "No, I won't."

"If you feel like you need them, you'll call me, right away. In the middle of the night, whatever; I don't care. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Patrick promised, his voice shaking.

Finn nodded. He believed Patrick meant it, but he knew it wasn't going to be easy. "You shouldn't have taken them to begin with."

"I know. I hadn't ever done anything like that before November." Patrick's guilt was palpable.

He touched Patrick's chest, over his heart. "So. This is for that. This is me, taking care of that. After today, you won't feel bad about it anymore. You can put it down, and you start tomorrow, all over again. Okay?"

"Okay," the boy nodded. Finn could hardly believe the trust Patrick was placing in him, so readily, so easily. Like I was trustworthy, he thought, and the idea buoyed him, gave him courage. I won't let him down.

Finn pulled the plastic chair away from the wall, settling it in the middle of the bathroom, and sat down, drawing Patrick closer to him. "Take your jeans down, and lean over my lap, here. I'll hold you up. Don't worry. It's going to be fine."

"Is it going to hurt?" Patrick asked, barely hesitating as he unbuttoned his jeans.

Finn's lips twisted. He laid a hand on Patrick's waist. "Yes. But sometimes that's important, too."

"Okay," Patrick nodded resolutely. He leaned over, and Finn guided him into position, taking his weight on his lap. With quick, efficient movements, he drew his boxers down over his knees, holding him firmly in place with one hand. Finn could feel his breath moving in and out, rapid and tense.

"You're going to want to relax, as much as you can," he said gently. "The more you try to resist, the more it's going to hurt. Just let it go."

"I'll try," Patrick said through gritted teeth. Finn chuckled, stroking his back through his shirt. Slowly, he felt the tension ease, and Patrick's body folded into Finn's.

"That's it," Finn said. He slid his hand down lower, resting just above his bare buttocks. "You're doing so well. There's nothing to be afraid of. I'm here to take care of you."

Patrick nodded, letting out a sigh, and Finn felt a sense of accomplishment, knowing he'd made the right call, handling Patrick this way. He could feel Patrick's tension flooding away, even before the first stroke. He needed this, Finn thought, as much as I do. We're helping each other.

"The cocaine, Patrick." Finn put one firm hand on Patrick's behind, putting pressure on the space between his two cheeks. He felt Patrick's shudder, and tucked his other arm around him, holding him closer, supporting him. "You're letting that go, now."

"Y-yes," Patrick said with a sigh.

Finn let his hand rest there, then took it away. He touched Patrick's dark curls, feeling a sudden surge of fondness. "Is there anything else you need to let go of?"

"Blaine," he said, his breath catching in his throat. "My real name is Blaine."

Oh.Finn swallowed, opened his mouth, and said, softly, "I'm... I'm Finn."

Patrick - Blaine- laughed softly. "Nice to meet you, Finn," he said from the vicinity of Finn's calves.

Finn successfully held back his laughter, but he was sure his voice was tinged with amusement. "Likewise, Blaine. And thank you, for that trust. I'll take care of that, too."

He found himself drawing into himself, gathering his focus and directing it to a space in the center of Blaine's back, feeling the importance, the gravity of the situation, even in the midst of their levity. Finn, and Blaine,he thought, and he felt better, more settled.

His hand came down, hard, in the center of Blaine's buttocks, making him jump and cry out. "It's all right," he soothed, even as he landed another stroke, and another. The pale surface of Blaine's skin was immediately red, but Finn knew the color didn't really indicate how hard he'd been hitting. Blaine moaned and shifted in Finn's grasp.

"Let it go," he urged. Each stroke landed, sharp and ringing in the stark, bare lavatory, with nothing to muffle the retorts or Blaine's discomfort. "You're doing just fine."

"God," Blaine gasped, squirming. "It - it hurts."

"Give it up, Blaine," Finn said sharply, and with the next series of swats, Blaine started to cry.

"I'm- I'm sorry," Blaine gasped, sniffling through tears. "I w-won't t-take the coke anymore - please, you can stop, I won't - "

"I'm right here," he said, a little more gently. "You're so good. Such a good boy."

Blaine shuddered against him, and Finn felt the last bit of tension flood from his body. "Oh," he whimpered, "oh, God, Finn."

"Yes." Finn stopped, taking his hand from Blaine's red, raw flesh and wrapping it around his shoulder, pulling him onto his lap. Blaine curled into Finn's body, shaking with release, and Finn held him close, rocking him gently. "Yes... that's it. Just let it go."

They sat like that for some time while Blaine clung to him, his breath slowing over long minutes, until at last he lifted his head from Finn's chest. "Tissues," he said gravely, shaking his head at the tear stains on Finn's shirt.

"I'll do you one better," Finn said, shifting slightly to be able to reach his pocket. "My - uh, friend makes me carry a handkerchief. He says they're softer than tissues."

Blaine took the square of cloth, monogrammed with Kurt's script K, using it to dab at his cheeks and eyes. At Finn's nod, he blew his nose. Finn put his hand out for it, but Blaine shook his head. "Please, let me. I'll return it on Saturday."

"That's fine," Finn said, smiling at Blaine's gesture. Then he paused, hesitating. "Actually, I'm not sure if I'll be here on Saturday. Friday's my birthday, and I'm not sure what Derek's planning. But - if I can, I'll be here." He touched Blaine's arm. "I wantto be here."

Blaine gave him a hopeful smile. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." He helped Blaine sit up, a little wobbly, and supported him to minimize the pressure on his sore behind. "How do you feel?"

"Tired," Blaine said, "but better, I think. Not as much like I'm losing my grip, you know?" Finn watched him look around the room, blinking, testing his legs, and he helped him pull up his shorts and jeans. He was a little surprised to find that neither one of them seemed embarrassed by the situation. It felt very familiar to Finn, but even this first experience with Blaine was easy, comfortable. Like we'd been doing it all our lives,he mused, and he drew Blaine into a hug.

"I'm glad," he said, holding him close. "You deserve that."

"I do?" Blaine sounded like he didn't believe Finn at all.

"Yeah," Finn insisted. He leaned in, on impulse, and kissed him on the temple. "You really do."

"I don't really know how to let myself trust that." Blaine scuffed his shoe on the tile floor, and let his eyes drift down to track the motion. "I guess I just see myself as this weird, messed up kid, you know?"

"Yeah," Finn said, softly. "I guess we all feel like that at one time or another. But I think that everyone deserves to be happy, to feel good about who they are. Especially when the world's sure we're wrong. You need somebody on your side to remind you you're not.I've got lots of people like that."

Blaine shook his head. "I don't have very many people like that. Or at least, it never feels like I have enough people."

"Well..." Finn touched his cheek, smiling. "Now you've got one more."