Here's an update for those of you who are actually reading this. (and if you are, I love you!)
And if you review, I love you even more!
Disclaimer: I do not own Glee OR Fight Club. :D kthxreadnow.
Two screens into the slide show for my French lesson and I start tasting blood in my mouth. Everyone can see the stitches on my cheek but no one says anything.
When the nurses in the emergency room asked me how I got the cut just under my left eye, Blaine started putting words in my mouth.
"He fell down some stairs."
"Yeah, I uh… fell down some stairs."
My lips become even more sticky with blood as I try to lick it off. Suddenly, I imagine Blaine's lips on mine. The way the curve of his hard body feels in my hands. We hadn't fucked in two days. Somehow that seemed too long for me. I missed the feel of his body slick with sweat against mine as he pounded into me… I needed to stop. French. Right.
The blood was seeping through the cracks of my teeth now.
You can swallow about a pint of blood before you're sick.
After school at Warblers' rehearsal someone finally asks me what happened to my face.
The first rule about fight club is you don't talk about fight club.
"I fell down." I tell Thad, "I did this to myself."
Blaine sits next to me at the council meeting as we decide what songs we're going to be singing for Regionals. We tied with New Directions at sectionals, but somehow, I couldn't even bring myself to care. Blaine and I exchange a look; it's Tuesday. We look up at Wes banging his gavel to restore order and see that his black eye hasn't faded yet. We don't say anything.
The second rule about fight club is you don't talk about fight club.
David is sitting at the other end of the council table and his fists are clenched, the deep, searing cuts on his knuckles becoming more evident. His lip is less swollen than it was last week but his nose looks slightly more crooked than it used to. We can tell that he's looking for a good fight tonight. Last week he had to tap out when a stringy blonde kid named Jeff beat him to a bloody pulp. That's the third rule in fight club, when someone says stop, or goes limp, even if he's just faking it, the fight is over.
Only two guys to a fight. One fight at a time. You fight without shirts or shoes (blazers optional). The fights will go on as long as they have to. Those are some of the other rules.
The first fight club was just Blaine and I standing in the Dalton choir room at 2:00 am pounding on each other.
I just don't want to die without a few scars, really. Even if it is at the price of my beauty.
It used to be that I could go home pissed at the world and just do my moisturizing regimen and know that someday, everything was going to work out. I would graduate high school, attend a performing arts school, become a star, grow old, die—and all of it without a single scar on my pristine face. Hey, even the Mona Lisa is falling apart. Since fight club started, I can wiggle almost half of the teeth in my jaw.
Maybe self-importance isn't the answer.
Maybe self-destruction is the answer.
Wes finally bangs that damn gavel of his to adjourn the meeting. As half of the crowd stands to leave, Blaine walks over to Thad and says "Hey, you might wanna stick around for a while." He then moves to close the door behind the last of the boys exiting and barricade it shut. All around me boys in blazers are clearing out chairs from the middle of the room and stripping off their clothes. I check my watch, it's nearly 7:00; right on time.
Blaine steps into the middle of the circle and his shirt is already gone. I rake my eyes over his muscles in all of their glory and suppress the moan bubbling up in the back of my throat.
Blaine speaks and everyone goes silent, "The first rule of fight club is you do not talk about fight club. The second rule of fight club is you do not talk about fight club."
Blaine continued to list off the rules but I found myself not listening, but instead fantasizing about what I wanted to do to him later. I got lost in my own train of thought when Blaine's voice snapped me out of it as he listed off the final rule.
"And the seventh rule: if this is your first night at fight club, you have to fight."
Everyone's eyes immediately went to Thad. I tapped Thad on the shoulder and asked him to sign up for a fight, figuring I'd be the only one to go easy on him.
Turns out Thad must have had a bad week.
This nervous little boy became a seething, angry man right before my eyes. I got in a few good punches and his cheek began to swell, but that's about it. He managed to get my arms pinned behind my back and he was on top of my, pounding my face into pristine, oak floors of the choir room. He pounded and pounded until I felt my stitches pop open and I bit a chunk out of the inside of my left cheek. I managed to spray out "Stop!" before I went limp.
He climbed off of top of me and Blaine began scooping me up off of the floor. We looked down and you could make out the shape of my face in the puddle of blood on the floor. "Cool" Blaine said.
Thad moves to grab a mop to clean my blood up off of the floor.
I stop Thad and shake his hand and say "Good fight."
Thad says, "How about next week?"
I say, "Look at me. How about next month?"
The first night Blaine and I fought, I didn't know what to think.
"Excuse me?"
"I said, I want you to hit me as hard as you can."
I paused, "Okay, do you want it in the face or in the stomach?"
"Surprise me." Blaine flashed me that devilish smile of his.
I said, "I've never hit anybody before."
"So just go crazy man. This is what it's all about, living in the moment."
I said, "Close your eyes."
"No."
Blaine locked his eyes on mine as I steadied my feet and balled up my fists.
So, just like every other guy at his first fight club, I breathed in deep and then swung at Blaine just like I'd seen it done in movies hundreds of times before. I missed. My fist connected with his ear.
"Shit!" I say, "I'm sorry! That one didn't it count."
"Yeah," Blaine rubbed his ear and then shook himself out, "it counted." Pow. He hit me straight in the kisser. I fell back against one of the large, plush couches in the choir room.
"Fuck!"
"Yeah?" Blaine asked.
I rubbed my jaw. "Hit me again."
"No, you hit me."
So we fought. We fought and fought and each punch felt like I was hitting every little problem with my life that I couldn't control. My father's heart problem, the fact that I didn't get a solo again, Rachel Berry's obnoxious voice and overbearing sense of importance, Dave Karofsky and his disgusting chili dog lips. And Sebastian Smythe, who stole my group therapy sessions from me.
Nothing was actually solved when the fight was over, but nothing mattered either.
The first night we fought was a Friday and Blaine hadn't shaved all week. The scruff of his beard burned my knuckles. I silently wondered how it would feel against my lips.
I asked Blaine who he had been fighting and he said his father.
He asked me, and I said Karofsky.
Blaine asked me if I wanted to go home with him that night. I did.
You aren't alive like you're alive at fight club anywhere else. Fight club isn't about winning or losing fights. It isn't about words. Fight club is about feeling something. It's about separating yourself from the piss and the shit and the ignorance that runs rampant in this world. Fight club is about being saved.
Fight club is about self-destruction.
At the end of every fight club, Blaine stands before the crowd and states the mantra that we have given ourselves. "First, we sleep. For in darkness shall we meet to fight with all our might and beat upon our breast and honor the Dalton crest."