12/30/2010

A/N: I am so, so sorry about that long delay in updates. On the other hand. . .I did promise an update Sunday. And. . .it is Sunday! Also, thank you all so much for all of the wonderful reviews. It's been a pleasure and an honor writing for you. Enjoy!

Blaine is completely done with the Columbia library. Usually it's beautiful, and peaceful, and the perfect place to study. Normally he likes the silence in the library, the way that the only sound is the breathing of other students, the rustling of pages, and the occasional sharp tap as somebody enters or exits. There's a kind of camaraderie in the shared quiet. He knows that other students find it intimidating, but despite a year at McKinley he's still accustomed to the shared study spaces of Dalton, and he welcomes the solidarity of the library.

But now, with spring break present and most of the students gone, it's oppressive. He keeps glancing over the table at Jon, wanting the other boy to say something, wanting to say something to him, but unwilling to break the silence. Instead they just sit there, side by side, folding pamphlets and amassing a pile of paper.

It's been almost two hours when Blaine finally snaps. He's folded over 4,000 pamphlets and Jon probably more, based on the pile to his left. The sun is disappearing through the library windows, and Blaine can barely believe that he wasted the first day of spring break in the library. It's for a good cause, he reminds himself, glancing at the Prop 8 posters. After all, it will be a landmark decision by the Supreme Court, whichever way it goes, either validating gay people across the country or casting their rights into serious doubt.

It's important that the community come together and support one another

Even so, Blaine is still itching to leave, to do something. He's never been good at sitting still, at biting his tongue, and it's even worse when he knows that most of his friends are back home in Ohio, or on cruises or trips. It hurts that even their LGBT group has fled for the vacation period.

"I'm going to get a coffee," he whispers to the vice president, wincing at how loud his voice sounds in the library. A few law students glance up at him angrily, and he waves nervously. He hears a snort.

"I'll come," Jon says, stretching his hands. He shakes his head ruefully before standing up, pushing his chair back with a creak that has all the law students glaring their way again. Jon just rolls his eyes and sticks up his middle finger before walking away. Blaine follows quickly behind him.

They both, in unison, suck in deep breaths of cool spring air as they step outside. Blaine coughs, once, as though the dust of the library somehow lodged in his lungs. Jon sighs.

"I'm really sorry about you and Kurt," he says. Blaine just glances over.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I mean, it's pretty obvious what he thought, after I showed up with the handcuffs." Jon pats Blaine on the shoulder. "It's okay. First loves never laugh."

Blaine stares at him, flat and a little baffled. "What are you talking about?"

"High school love never makes it through college," Jon says. "You grow up, grow apart. . .find people who have more in common with you. . ."

Jon reaches out and grabs Blaine's hand, lacing their fingers together before Blaine even has the chance to protest. He looks in disbelief at where their hands are clasped.

"If you ever want to talk about the breakup," Jon says earnestly, "I'm here for you."

Blaine wretches his hand away and shakes his head. "I think you're confused," He says. "Kurt and I didn't break up."

If looks could kill, Jon would be locked up for twenty years. Blaine actually takes a step back for a moment, before Jon manages to settle his face into a passive mask.

"You didn't?"

"No," Blaine says, resolutely, although there's a little portion of his heart wondering if he's really speaking the truth. They haven't broken up, per se, but there is that awkward series of texts currently saved in his phone.

Please don't break up with me. I love you. I need you.

And then, almost ten hours later.

I need some time.

As much as you need. I'll be here.

Heading back to Ohio. Coffee when I get back?

Of course. I'm sorry. I love you.

A thirty minute interlude, as though Kurt is considering what to respond, until finally. . .

I'm sorry, too. Love you.

So he's pretty sure that they didn't break up, despite the silence since spring break started (only two days, Blaine reminds himself harshly) and despite the "need to talk." It's all going to be fine, though, because talking for them is good news.

"I'm sorry," Jon says. "I shouldn't have assumed. Anyway. Do you still want to meet up tomorrow before the march?"

Blaine considers saying no, he really does. There's a very big part of him that wants to say no, to just get away from Jon. It feels terrifyingly close to the Sebastian situation senior year, and he doesn't want to put Kurt through that again. He doesn't want that strain on their relationship, especially not when it's already so strained with the Santana situation and the handcuffs. . .

But this is important. The march isn't just about him, and it isn't just about the LGBT community at Columbia. He's been working for months on the march, and civil rights activists have been fighting for gay marriage for longer than he's been alive. He'll just have to put his personal issues behind him.

"Sure," he says. "Sure."

Xxx

Blaine spends an hour agonizing over what to wear in the morning. If Kurt and he were still on regular speaking terms, he would ask his boyfriend for advice – and then, in all honesty, probably do the exact opposite. But there is no Kurt, and he's stuck staring at a pair of jeans and a polo.

It's simple. It doesn't say anything.

What does he want it to say?

There's a part of him that wants to wear his rainbow suspenders (though they're still at Kurt's dorm, he's pretty sure) or a PRIDE shirt or a royal purple pull-over. But there's another part of him that wants to be simple and straight. . .to just say "I'm a person." Being gay doesn't define him, and he doesn't want to give the impression that it does.

He pulls on the clothes and steps out the door. There's a fluttery feeling in his stomach, nerves he's pretty sure. There's something different in them today – different than when he's performing with the Kingsmen, or when he's on his way to see Kurt – something dark and scary.

He tells himself to ignore it.

Jon meets him at the corner, as promised, along with Alice, and Tony, and a few other kids from Columbia. Blaine smiles, catches Jon's eyes. His friend winks at him, and Blaine lets out a long sigh. He can almost feel the tension leaving his shoulders. Today is not about him, he reminds himself. Today is about all of them.

They have bagels and coffee for breakfast, before walking across to the Columbia Student Offices. They pick up their signs, all of them quiet, filled with short, quiet giggles at anything remotely funny. Blaine hops up and down, nervous energy filling his very being. This is it, he thinks fiercely.

His phone vibrates in his pocket, just before they hop on the subway. He takes a moment to pull it out and look at the message.

Good luck today. I love you.

Another vibration and then

Courage.

Blaine quite literally can't control his smile as he heads down into the depths of the subway. Alice, Jon, and the others are miling around the turnstile, waiting for him. When he arrives, Alice slings an arm over his shoulders, and Jon loops an arm through Blaine's left.

It's thirty minutes to make it to 42nd street. They briefly consider taking the 7 across to the East Side, before deciding just to walk. A few people glance at them as they head up the escalator, peering at the signs that they're holding tight to their bodies, or the bags bulging with pamphlets. Most people ignore them, however, innured to the New York attitude of indifference. Blaine keeps bouncing on the balls of his feet.

There's already a crowd gathered on 5th Avenue, even though they're still half an hour early. Blaine stares around at them, his mouth a little agape. He and Kurt have talked about attending PRIDE for years, and he can't help but wonder how anything can be bigger than this. There are the traditional hipsters, down for any kind of a march, police officers in uniform, men in business suits, and hordes upon hordes of people dressed simply and cleanly like himself. There are also drag queens walking around, and men with brightly dyed hair and piercings, women in flannel and pastel. Gay and straight, and transgendered. Blaine would probably have stayed standing there, his mouth open like a yokel from Ohio, if Jon didn't shove him.

"Hand out stacks of pamphlets," he encourages. Blaine nods, a little dumbly, before hurrying through the crowd.

Everybody smiles at him, some give him hugs, some firm handshakes. It's so different from the New York that Blaine's gotten used to that his heart almost seizes. They take thick stacks of pamphlets. Some read through some, some promise to hand them out. He keeps to the edges of the crowds, as Alice had advised. After all, the pamphlets aren't for the people marching – it's for everyone else they meet, who don't know what's happening in Washington D.C., who don't realize that legalizing gay marriage in New York has not extended that right to everyone.

At noon exactly, one of the march leaders steps to the front with a megaphone. Blaine is near the back, by now, having handed out almost all of his pamphlets. He strains to hear, to see over the heads of the thousand-strong crowd, but all that he gets is that it's time to go. The tight heat in the pit of his stomach is coiling now, blooming through his body.

Maybe it isn't fear, he tells himself. Maybe it isn't a bad feeling. It doesn't make sense that he would feel afraid, not surrounded by supporters and allies.

"This is amazing," he breathes, not even realizing that the words have left his mouth until the six foot tall man next to him turns around, blond wig, pink eyeshadow and all.

"We'll see," the man says, the deep rumble in his throat in direct contrast to the cosmetics on his face. "What we do today means nothing if Scalia has his way in D.C."

"Still," Blaine says, his eyes still wide. "This is amazing."

The man looks at him critically for a moment, before cracking a smile and shrugging. "Yeah," he finally agrees. "I guess it is."

There's a fury of sound that starts as soon as they begin walking. Blaine stays back for a few steps, uncertain if he wants to join. He's used to loud sounds and cheering crowds, but he's never been swallowed up in them like this. His heart is in his throat, and it's hard to walk out of the tempo. His feet pull him forward, drawn in by the crowd and the march, but there's a part of him that's still nervous, still uncertain, that pulls him back away. He scans the crowd, looking for Jon's distinctive red hair, or the purple streaks that Alice is currently sporting. He can't see them, of course, blocked off by the backs of the men and women in front of him.

Kurt would love this, he thinks dazedly.

Ten minutes of marching later, he's somehow gravitated into the middle of the back, pressed tight between other marchers. As a broad shoulder presses into his, he loses a grip on one of his pamphlets, and it flutters to the ground. Blaine abruptly remembers why they are there, and pushes his way to the edge of the crowd, muttering unheard "sorry's" the entire way.

There are people watching, he realizes with a bit of shock, when he finally breaks free. Most in mild interest, heads cocked and eyebrows raised. He moves over to them, flashes them broad smiles and hands out brochures. He explains to a short little lady the upcoming Supreme Court case, and ignores the pair of teenage boys making obsence gestures. A group of college-aged girls clap as they walk by, and two businessmen frown, clearly annoyed at having their route to work cordoned off.

Most of the onlookers are disinterested, however, used to the myriad parades and marches on Fifth Avenue, particularly as spring fades into summer. At first Blaine is hurt by this, surprised by the disinterest, and disheartened. Then again, he thinks, a moment later, maybe it's a good thing. After all, thousands of gay men, lesbians, bisexuals and transgendered people are marching down one of the main roads in New York City – isn't the normal New York self-absorption just a sign of acceptance?

He's beginning to enjoy himself, the sense of dread fading away, and he's nearly out of pamphlets when he spies the group of kids. They're young, probably just in high school, dressed in varsity jackets and douchebag sunglasses. Blaine's insides seize up at the sight of them, memories of Sadie Hawkins and prom flashing through his mind.

It's cold and rainy, because that's how the nightmares always go, that's how the horror stories are scripted and the fairytales imagined. Two boys, standing alone in the high school parking lot, tips of their ears red, mouths twisted into frowns. They hadn't even danced, just stood by a punch bowl and swayed, the backs of their knuckles barely brushing every now and again.

Even so. Even so, eyes had been on them, and they'd been shoved, tripped, kicked. Hateful words whispered in their ears.

You don't belong.

Go home.

Fag.

A few girls who came by, their friends, to dance with them. The AV club who brought the punch over, the teachers who clapped them on the shoulders and asked if they were having a good time.

But mostly those eyes, filled with disgust or hate, or even just misunderstanding.

They've left early, hours before the dance is set to end, so they'll be waiting in the parking lot a while for Shane's dad to finally arrive and picked them up. Blaine shivers a little, and Shane shifts over so that their arms are pressed together. Blaine glances at his friend, out the corner of his eye. Courage, he thinks to himself. Isn't that what this whole night is about? Courage. He pulls his right hand out of his pocket, and loops it around his friend's waist, looping his thumb through the other boy's belt loop. He stares straight ahead, and he knows that the red from the tips of his ears is now staining his cheeks.

This is different, he tells himself firmly. He's in New York, and his stereotyping of football players is no better than a homophobic putting him into a box. He moves toward them, determined to hand them a pamphlet. They're here watching, aren't they?

Before he can get more than a step, however, a hand reaches out from the crowd of marchers and encircles his bicep. Blaine turns, looks over his shoulder to see a young man, unobtrusive, maybe a few years older than himself. He's wearing plastic rimmed glasses and a suit.

"Don't," the man says.

"You can't judge a book by its cover," Blaine says resolutely, and pulls himself free.

He's chasing his boyfriend down a long corridor, heart thundering in his chest. It's well lit, and they're still inside. Nobody had said a word to them at the dance, and he doesn't have bruises littering his body, but there's still something in him screaming to run run run.

He does, but this time he's not running away, he reminds himself, as he skitters around a corner and sees a flap of Kurt's kilt. No matter how scared he is, no matter how much he wants to leave, this night isn't about him. It never was.

He's never let his bullies push him to tears. They never saw him cry. It's not fair, he thinks, that Kurt's bullies were able to push him to that point.

"Hi," Blaine says chipperly, as he walks up to the group of athletes. A thick, metal bar separates them, helping the police to block off the traffic to the parade route. It also effectively separates the spectators from the marchers, whether that's the intention or not. "Have you heard about the upcoming case in the Supreme Court? They're set to heard oral argument on it this afternoon, and it will be broadcast in audio at the Lincoln Theater. We're inviting everyone to come out and join us, to show their support."

"We're not gay," the lead boy says, and Blaine instantly feels his heart drop. The tone is flat – not aggressive or threatening, but flat and empty. He glances back nervousely, as the stream of marchers continues on.

"It's not just for gay people," Blaine continues, the words almost memorized by rote. "Allies are welcome, peope who have friends or family who are gay. The argument isn't really about homosexuality – it's about equality for all people, and about marriage being a fundamental right."

The boys just stare at him. They don't say anything or do anything, but when Blaine holds out a pamphlet, one of them takes it.

The footsteps come from behind. Blaine stiffens, but doesn't turn around. He's ready for the hard, wet smack of an egg against his neck, a cup of punch poured over his head, maybe of piece of cake thrown against his back. He isn't prepared for the hand that settles on his shoulder and spins him around, putting him instantly off-balance.

He squints, the figure in front of him dark and hazy in the rain, silhouetted by the parking lot lights at his back.

"Hey," Blaine says dully. "We're just waiting for Shane's dad. Feel free to go back to the dance."

"We'd like to," one of the boys says, his voice low and guttural. Blaine frowns, because he can't quite place it. It's familiar, but raspier than he's used to. One of the hockey players, he thinks. "But here's the thing. You and you little boyfriend came in and gayed the whole place up."

"We're just friends," Shane protests.

There's no warning. In the movies there's always a warning, somebody makes a speech, something happens. There's no warning. One minute Blaine is standing there, trying to figure out why the voice is so familiar, and the next thing he knows he's on the ground, harsh pavement on his cheek, his jaw aching from a fist. He's ripped a hole in his jeans, he realizes.

He looks up in time to see the shoe coming at his face.

Blaine walks sideways for a moment, keeping his gaze on the football players. He's uneasy, even though he knows it's stupid. They're just kids, and there are police and witnesses all around. It's different than a write-in, anonymous prom king ballot, or an abandoned high school parking lot. It's different.

Still, there's something eerie in the way the high school boys are standing so quiet and still, in the way that they all have one hand before their backs. Blaine stops walking.

They all have one hand behind their backs.

He immediately thinks "gun" which is ridiculous, really, isn't it? Still, he wants to blend back into the middle of the crowd. But in the time he's spent talking to the boys, the march has moved on, and he's near the stragglers at the back. To reach the safety of the center, he'll have to turn his back on the boys.

He bites his lips. The police have moved on with the rest of the marchers, and apparently that's enough for the boys. They slink around the guardrail. Blaine opens his mouth, prepared to yell, to call out for help, to

He doesn't know what to say, though, and something freezes him to the spot,

Fists, shoes, elbows, nails, laughing hulking shadows above him

Kurt standing alone in the middle of a crowded room, a lost, scared look on his face, spotlight holding steady on him, screaming that he's different, unwanted, unloved

Huddled in a small ball, knees to chest, face pressed in tightly to the top of his thighs. He's shiver in the cold rain, almost welcomes the blood on his face, because at least it's warm. . .

He takes one step and freezes, hand outstretched. "Excuse me," he says, but his voice is hardly loud enough to be heard. It doesn't matter, Kurt spins around and all of the hateful, horrible people who wrote down his name disappear

The lead boys arm moves, harsh and fast, too fast for Blaine to understand what it is, just "it's not a gun" before his right shoulder explodes into pain. He stumbles, lets out a short cry, and then there's a matching pain in his head and the world goes dark.

Xxx

The first thing he notices when he wakes up is the noise – or the lack of it. There's a thrumming through his body, that he soon recognizes as a car moving. He's stiff, and he can't move, and he's stuck staring at the ceiling. He tries to breathe, but there's something on his face, and he can't move, oh God, why can't he move.

He tries to turn his eyes, to look to the side and see what's going on, but the minute he glances in one direction a searing pain goes through his mind until everything is black again.

Xxx

It's pain, pain in his head, pain in his shoulder, a dull ache everywhere. He takes a breath, but it stutters, something clogging up his windpipe, his mouth, and he can't breath, he can't breathe, he can't breathe

Xxx

He's floating, or he feels like he is. There's a weightlessness, a cloudiness. He thinks this must be what cotton candy feels like every day.

It takes a moment to realize that the rushing that he hears, the babbling of the creek is actually voices, hushed and nervous. They're whispering, but loudly, people on an airplane who have to almost shout to be heard, but at the same time don't want to wake up the baby asleep in front of them.

Something is beeping.

"My baby, my poor little baby, we should never have let him go to New York."

"I told him. I told him again and again that his lifestyle would get him in trouble, would wind up with him dead in a ditch."

"Thank goodness for Jon, having the sense to call us on Blaine's cell phone."

"We're pulling him out of school, right, dear? Aren't we?"

"Should we let that girl in? Rachel. . .she's a nice girl. Remember when they went out?"

"Kurt's waiting."

Xxx

His head is still cloudy when he awakes again, but at least this time he knows that he isn't cotton candy. He tries to open his eyes, but there's something covering them, something binding them shut. His heart stutters, and somewhere beeping gets louder. What if he's blind? What if he can't see?

"There are places I remember

All my life, though some have changed

Some forever, not for better

Some have gone and some remain

All these places have their moments

With lovers and friends, I still recall

Some are dead and some are living

In my life I've loved them all"

He has a heard injury. He can remember snippets of doctor's conversations. Putting a stent in, draining fluid, pulling off a portion of his skull to let his brain swell and bruise. He shudders, wondering if there's a hole in the top of his head, right now. Somebody is holding his hand, one gentle finger rubbing circles across the palm.

"But of all these friends and lovers

There is no one compares with you

And these memories lost their meaning

When I think of love as something new"

He's in a hospital. He's in a hospital, and his head has been sawed open. Somewhere there are two people, angry and cold, talking about taking him away from. . .from something that is incredibly important. Next to him, someone is singing, voice pure and angelic. The hand pressed into his hand is filled with love.

There's a vague memory, somewhere in the haze of his head, telling him that his mother used to sing to him in bed, lullabies at night and happy ditties in the morning. Somehow he knows that it isn't his friend singing right now, however.

"Though I know I'll never lose affection

For people and things that went before

I know I'll often stop and think about them

In my life I love you more."

He doesn't know exactly who he is, or where he is, outside of the hospital. He doesn't know who's holding his hand, or who is singing. He doesn't know anything, and there's a dull ache behind his eyes. He doesn't know what he's doing here, or why everything hurts, or why he feels so broken, but whoever is singing to him makes him feel safe. Loved.

"In my life I love you more

In my life I love you more."

Xxx

The next time that Blaine wakes up, he knows who he is. There's a dull ache behind his eyes, but he can open them. He blinks three times, but nothing comes into focus. Even so, the yellow light of the hospital is better than the blackness he's been wandering in.

His parents are here, somewhere. He remembers hearing them.

He thinks that Kurt is here, though he can't be sure that the voice he'd heard wasn't part of a wonderful dream. Kurt's in Ohio, he reminds himself.

He raises his left hand, shakily, wincing as it pulls at his right shoulder. There's a thick bandage covering his head, the gauze harsh and unforgiving against his fingers. He pokes at it once, hisses and pulls back, not enjoying the flash of pain that sears through his skull. It's brief, but it's enough.

"Blaine?"

The voice is high and too feminine, not the one he wants to hear at all. It must have been a dream, then. He turns his head to the side, squints in an attempt to make the white oval come into focus. It doesn't work, though, and all he sees is a blur of lightness, surrounded by a wreath of dark hair. The voice, however, is unmistakeable, a little shrill, vibrant, filled with confidence.

"Hi, Rachel," he says, coughing twice and barely recognizing his own voice, so rough and harsh. "What are you doing here?"

"Kurt asked me to come," she says. She slides a little closer, and reaches out to take his hand. "I'm so, so sorry, Blaine."

"For what?" he asks, a little confused.

"For calling you a dirty stinking cheater," she says softly. "Kurt was right. You're not any of those things, and I was wrong for thinking that."

"It's okay," Blaine says. "I didn't even know you said any of that."

"I know," Rachel says. She sniffles, and raises a hand. She's crying, Blaine realizes. He tries to take her hand in his right, but it's bound to his side and he can't move the arm at all. He shifts a little, and manages to awkwardly pat her on the head with his left hand. He can faintly hear the sound of footsteps in the hallway.

"Hey," he says, wondering why he's the one soothing her. "It's okay. It's all going to be okay."

This just results in more sobs. The footsteps quicken, and the door to the room suddenly is thrown open. Blaine squints in the direction, but all he can tell is that a tall figure has entered the room. Probably a man, based on the breadth of shoulders, but he can't be sure.

"What's wrong? Oh my God, Rachel. . ."

Blaine still can't make out the specifics of the man's face, or outfit, but he knows that voice.

Kurt.

He can't help but start to smile as the figure hurries toward him, practically throwing Rachel aside in his haste and worry. He falls to his knees, reaching out and grabbing Blaine's hands. He reaches one hand up – one blurry, fuzzy blob of a hand – and hovers it nervously over Blaine's head, before gently, painfully gently, brushing across Blaine's forehead.

"Oh," Blaine whispers. "There you are. I've been looking for you forever."

Kurt giggles a little, half a sob snuck in there somewhere. "You are such a cheeseball."

"You love it."

Kurt leans forward, brushes his lips lightly across Blaine's lips. "I do," he whispers. "I really, really do."

A/N: Bam! No cliffhanger. Just a little bit of cheese. Except, you know, that Blaine is half –blind, Rachel and Finn have. . .issues. . .and who knows how Santana will deal with all of this. But outside of that. . .it's all good!

COMING SOON: Somebody proposes at the hospital, somebody forgives, and somebody leaves New York for good. Bum bum bum! Plus. . .a death, and summer plans might pull some of our favorites apart.