Hi guys! I'm back with some more Blaine! I hope you're enjoying The Divide so far, and please, feel free to leave criticism in the reviews, or in a PM! I'm working on making chapters a bit longer as well. I know Blaine's father/parents aren't supportive of him in the show, but I wanted him to have a resolution at least somewhere.

Thanks for reading guys,

I don't own Glee, or any related characters/other paraphernalia. Copyright goes to FOX and Ryan Murphy, plus all the other people affiliated with Glee.

Blaine Anderson's bed was narrow enough that if he rolled just ever so slightly too far to the right, he would fall and hit his head on the hard-packed dirt flooring. If he rolled just ever so slightly too far to the left, he would hit cobblestone wall.

So when his brother George shook him hard enough to knock the early morning cobwebs from his brain, he forgot about his narrow bed and burrowed further under the covers, moving ever so slightly too far until… BANG! He rolled out of the bed, and in the brief moment of limbo between mattress and floor, looked up at George, glaring. But his anger diminished as his head began to sting, and he shook with pain and the splitting migraine-like injury on his forehead.

"Shit, B. I didn't mean for that to happen…" George trailed off, looking guilty, Blaine grimaced, but shook his head gently as if to tell George, no, it doesn't matter.

"It's cool, Georgeous," He said, emphasising the childhood nickname, If his brother wasn't bleeding from a thin cut on his face, George Anderson would have shoved him. Really, he would.

He ignored his melting heart.

"Breakfast's downstairs, if you, uh, want any?" Blaine shook his head, gesturing at George to leave the room with the hand that wasn't pressed to his wound. When the usually confident boy bumbled from the room, Blaine let his brave expression sink and contort in pain. Deep breathing, deep breathing… Deep breathing was said to help.

It didn't.

Stumbling to his feet, he walked into the bathroom, and, with one hand holding under the crack on the sink to stop the water flowing out (and failing), Blaine wet a thick piece of cloth and held it to his head, until the cold water numbed the pain. He sighed, the dropped the material into the marble basin and walked into the main room. It was dark - as per usual- and slightly ingy, but there was a loaf of fresh bread on the table, spread with thick cream cheese and sprinkled with raisins. It was a rare day on which there was more than fruit for breakfast - it made Blaine smile, even though he knew why there was a fancier dish on the table.

Today was the Test.

Most people on the Right Side knew that if you were chosen during The Test, you would never come back. People said it was so that said person could be trained in their talent, and Blaine didn't doubt that. Sure, he dropped out of school, rebelled against his parents and their drunken ways, all the while being brutally honest yet remaining painfully dapper.. That didn't mean he wanted to live out the rest of his life as a jobless old man, living with his parents until he died. Maybe, he would be good enough to leave, with just his guitar and his voice. Perhaps they had the other instruments his grandparents had spoken off - a violin, a piano, drums, a cello… But could he leave George?

For years, he had basked in the glorious thought of leaving his Side. He had pushed the loss of his brother to the back of his mind. Mere hours before his Test, he could no longer ignore it. Surely George could visit him? Even as he thought it, he knew he was deluding himself. His old friend Mia's sister (was she called Amy?) had been talented at baking (an odd talent for them to want, he thought) - and she left after her Test. She never returned, and Mia could never visit.

"Blaine? Bl-a-aine?" A calloused hand waving in front of his face caught his attention. George was stifling a laugh at the lost expression in his brothers face. If Blaine did leave, he wouldn't miss George's odd sense of humour in the least. But George's expression was instantly sombre as their parents walked through the door.

Blaine's mother had his large black curls, and his father had the same deep brown eyes. His olive skin was a mystery, and so was his musical talent. As far as he knew, his parents weren't musical, and it wasn't in his genes, if George was anything to go by.

"Blaine? George?" A gruff voice called into the room.

"In here," Said George, his face strained. He knew what was coming for his brother.

Their mother walked towards them, and there wasn't a trace of alcohol on her breath. She patted George's cheek, and smiled slightly at Blaine. He was shocked at first - his parents were often drunk. Maybe they'd come to wish him luck on his Test? They was never much interaction in the family.

James Anderson made his way across the room to his oldest son. He wasn't particularly good with affection - he patted George on the back, then clapped Blaine on the shoulder.

"Blaine. I need to talk to you," he said. Blaine furrowed his brow.

"Why?"

"Just come!" Huffed his father, grasping his wrist and pulling him into his bedroom.

"It's your Test today, isn't it?" Blaine nodded in reply. James sighed.

"Blaine, you need to sing for them."

"What?" Now he was completely confused.

"You think we don't hear you sing? You're good, Blaine. You're really good." James patted his son's shoulder stiffly and awkwardly. Blaine shook his head.

"If I am good enough… I can't leave you. Any of you!" His eyes were wide with shock, his hands shaking slightly as he jumped up, prepared to leave the room. His father pushed him back down, looking him straight in the eyes.

"Blaine, you do know they'll probably find out anyway, right?"

"How?"

"Look, they just do! You can't stop them anymore than I can! They know, Blaine, things we try to keep quiet. If you sing for them, you'll have a better chance of getting out of here. I know you want to."

Turning away, Blaine saw from the corner of his eye as his father pinched the bridge of his nose. Of course he want's to get out of The Right Side. Have a better life, a better future. But he couldn't leave George. Or his mother. Maybe not even the father who'd spent most of Blaine's life being drunk or disappointed in him. It didn't matter. They were his family, and Blaine was not selfish.

He wanted, just for a minute, to be a selfish man who would do right by only himself.

"Blaine, I'm not much cop as a parent. I'm know I've messed up. And I don't expect you to forgive me, or trust me. You don't owe me anything. But I owe you so many things that I just can't give. A better childhood. A better father. A better life. The best I can do is get you out of here. Go and become the best of what you do, and live in The Otium, and meet someone nice and have a happy rest-of-your-life." Blaine had turned back to face him, and he saw only regret in his father's eyes. No drunken haze of confusion, just sadness - so much sadness.

"I don't wanna leave George." He stated it bluntly, and his father did not wince. Instead, James nodded in agreement.

"Look, I know what you mean. But George is a big boy - he can take care of himself."

Blaine neglected to mention that it wasn't George looking out for himself that worried Blaine. He wanted George to look out for him - to go on stupid brotherly bonding trips that could get them killed, or tell him about growing up and girls. Admittedly, George had already told Blaine all about girls. Blaine still remained completely uninterested. He knew that he liked boys - it was a fact, and he wasn't going to change it about himself. He liked boys. So what?

"Yeah, but… what about you and mom? How do I know you'll still provide for him? This is the first time in years you've had a conversation with me without being completely intoxicated!"

"God, Blaine… is that really what you think of me?" Blaine couldn't bring himself to answer. It wasn't as if his father ever offered him any other opinions. He'd grown up to a drunken couple who gave him the clothes on his back and the food and drink he needed to live. He was used to it.

"Well, I never really got another damn option!" He was yelling now, but James' soberness allowed him a control over his emotions that he'd never experienced before.

"Blaine, sit down." His voice was calm and steady, but had a certain darkness to it that made Blaine - somewhat unwillingly - perch back on the lumpy mattress.

"Blaine, I have been an awful parent to you. So, you dropped out of school and rebelled against everything. I was too drunk to notice. And George? He practically had to raise you himself. I'm not going to forgive myself, and I'll probably be drunk by tomorrow when you leave. But I would never, ever let George go one day unfed, or without water. I love you, and I love your brother - I just messed it up too badly for you to trust me again. And you can hate me, but I could never, ever, ever hate you."

Blaine's breath came in dogged pants, sharp and harsh against his throat. His eyes were wet with tears, but he couldn't cry. Everything was blurry - what had his dad said? He didn't even know.

"I don't… hate you, Dad. But I don't trust you, you're right. And if you guys don't look after George, then I will lose whatever miniscule speck of respect I gained for you today." James nodded frantically, and patted his son on the shoulder again.

Blaine left the room, his shoulders sagging, but a weight lifted from his back.

"I am trying, you know. To get cleaned up," James smiled wistfully at the boy who he'd lost. Things were so hard on The Right Side - fights, lack of jobs, crumbling houses, sadistic guards. A drink made it easier for him, but it destroyed his two son's lives. The best he could do was give them a brighter future - even if it meant losing them both. George, he could provide money, clothes, food and a home for, but Blaine? Blaine had a chance to leave his hellhole of a home for good. He'd be darned if the boy didn't take it.

"I know, Dad. I know."

The smile Blaine gave in return was tinged with melancholy, but it was a smile, and he'd never been afforded one of his son' before.

"Thank you, Blaine."

"Mom?" Blaine called into the dark main room. His mother sat cross legged on the ground, her arms folded. Her long black curly hair was twisted away from her face into a messy braid, and her eyes were closed. She opened them, smiling forcefully, and turned to face her son.

"Yes, Blaine?"

"I just wanted to say goodbye. In case I leave after The Test." Phyllis Anderson's breath hitched, but she kept her shallow smile painted across her dainty features. Blaine had his father's chiselled jaw and thick 's features were like his mother's - small, delicate and innocent. Pity the bearer did not match.

"Okay. Well, goodbye, Blaine." He shook his head slightly. His mother was so blank, so emotionless; wouldn't she care if her left?

"Yeah. Bye." He turned away to leave, but felt a vice like grip of cold fingers on his wrist. Jerking around, he saw his mother standing up and looking him directly in the eyes.

"I'm sorry, Blaine. I've already spoken to George. I hope you can forgive me.I've been a terrible mother, to both of you. It was just so hard. I couldn't stand to see all the suffering, so I thought that the drinking… the drink meant I couldn't see it."

Blaine looked at her sadly. She's blanked him and disapproved of him, insulted and seemed to hate him. She and his father were drunk consistently, and now he'd received two apologies in one hour. He didn't know what to make of it. And he remembered the hug from not so long ago, and he patted her cheek gently. Phyllis removed her hand from clutching at her youngest son's wrist.

"I love you, B." She whispered, and he blinked away tears. He wouldn't cry for the people who'd messed up his entire childhood. They didn't deserve it.

A gentle nod. A single tear. He gave nothing more than that.

Finally, Blaine walked outside to the scrap of patchy grass that lay outside of his front door. The door squeaked, but it was barely holding on at the hinges and made no resistance as he pushed it open. Sure enough, George sat quietly on the scraggly plants and wet mud, his eyes downcast and his hair a shaggy mess (as per usual).

"I know you're there, Blaine. And I know what you're going to say." Blaine sighed. This was going to be a lot harder than he'd originally thought.

"George, I might not even leave, you know," Blaine trailed off. George turned around, and his eyes were glassy with unshed tears. Great, he thought. More crying.

"Yes you will. You're talented Blaine. You don't know it as much as you should, but you're so good. I can't stop you from leaving if it'll make you happy."

"Please, George. If I leave, I want to leave on good terms with you."

George looked at him, directly in his dark eyes, and began to cry. It started out a dry sobs, but his shoulders shook and he buried his face in his calloused palms. Blaine instantly reached out an arm, wrapping it around his older brothers scrawny shoulders.

"I want to be selfish, you know. I want to make you stay and guilt you into never leaving." Blaine sighed.

"I understand, George. I really do." George buried his face into his brother's shoulder, and groaned.

"No you don't - you're just saying that to make me feel better."

"I know."

"I love you, Blainers."

"I love you too, Georgeous."

Oh, for a cheesy, cliched ending!