Late that night, a tall girl with brown hair and pink highlights trudged up the stairs of a run-down apartment building. She could already hear the shouting through the door before she reached it, and she braced herself before placing her key in the lock. She turned the key, opened the door, and without even looking at her mother or step-father, headed straight for the stairs. They shouted after her. She shouted back. She couldn't even hear herself tell them to mind their business and leave her the hell alone because the shouts mingled and cancelled each other out. She made it to her room, shut the door, and locked it.

With her back pressed against the door she took a deep breath, exhaling it slowly. She pressed her Doc Martin flat against the door and pushed off of it, then dragged her fingers through her dyed tresses, loosening the tangles she'd acquired during her shift. The teen undid her coat and shrugged it off, then tossed it over her desk chair already covered in clothes. She then pulled out her iPhone with the cracked screen and checked her messages. Two texts from Blaine, and Bethany didn't even need to finish reading the second before she tapped the little green phone symbol and put the iPhone to her ear.

"Hey, Blainey, what's the haps?" she asked, smirking slightly though her voice was hushed. She flopped back onto her bed.

"You saw my texts, yes?"

"Yes, I saw your texts. Now tell me what the hell happened – I want the details."

Blaine hesitated. "Do you mind if we Skype? I'm running out of minutes and – well –"

"Say no more. I'll see you in a second." Bethany hung up the phone and dove to the end of her bed. She pulled her laptop out from under the comforter and opened it. It took her a minute to log in and by the time she had, she'd already gotten a contact request from "Blaine A."

She knew about the laptop, and it had been her suggestion that he take advantage of the communication that the internet had to offer. He'd resisted, but she knew, if she said nothing more, he'd come around. It happened even sooner than she'd anticipated. She heard the familiar boop-boop-ee-doop jingle and clicked to accept the video call. A nervous, but otherwise healthy-looking Blaine appeared on the screen. She beamed. Behind her, someone shouted louder and something glass shattered. Both she and Blaine looked at the door. Her brows furrowed.

"Ignore them," she told him tightly, then smiled again. "So – tell me about this guy," she insisted teasingly, then crossed her legs, adjusting her position on the bed. If it weren't for the lighting, she was sure she would have seen her best friend blush. Oh, he's got it bad…

He wasn't meaning to eavesdrop. Honestly, it wasn't really eavesdropping if someone was talking loudly enough to be heard on the other side of the door, right?

Over his shoulder, Hiram heard his husband hiss at him. "Hiram! What are you doing?"

He waved his hand impatiently at LeRoy and shushed him, then with furrowed brows he pressed his ear more closely to the door.

He could hear a snippet or two.

"Oh god, I think…likes me, Beth….Shut up!...I know, I know…asked me…just coffee…You really think it's a date?"

Hiram's heart pounded heavily in his ears. He still had no idea who his son was talking about. The other person was clearly Bethany, but her own voice was muffled and impossible to make out. Blaine probably had the laptop facing away from the door.

Hiram's brows furrowed further, but before he could catch another word, his arm was nearly yanked from its socket. He yelped involuntarily. He kept moving though – not that he had a choice. LeRoy was strong when he wanted to be, and the shorter man was quite literally dragging him through the house. "LeRoy!" Hiram hissed as he tried to counteract his husband's momentum. "Let go!"

But LeRoy did not let go, and struggling got Hiram nowhere. A moment later he was heaved bodily into his bedroom and LeRoy closed the door quickly behind them. He whipped around, and as angry as Hiram was, the venom in LeRoy's gaze gave him pause. He hadn't seen LeRoy so mad since that time he'd redone the den without consulting him, and now…

"What is wrong with you?" LeRoy snapped.

Hiram, affronted, gasped. "I – excuse me? What's wrong with me? I was not the one dragging you to our bedroom by the arm." He pouted, and hugged his sore limb to his chest.

LeRoy, though, was having none of it. "You know how important trust is, Hiram. If he had caught you…" LeRoy pressed his palms to his eyes. It was when he sniffed, though, that Hiram's indignancy melted.

"Oh, sweetie," he whined. "No, no – come on. Come here." His injured arm forgotten, Hiram opened his arms wide and rushed forward to envelope LeRoy in his arms. He squeezed, pulling his lover tightly to his chest. His heart swelled and ached at the very thought of the hurt he might have caused. "I'm sorry, sweetie. I'm sorry, don't cry, baby. It's all ok. No one's mad at anyone."

Hiram pulled back and smiled hopefully at the man he loved. LeRoy's watery eyes met Hiram's, and involuntarily, he let out a small, relieved laugh. Of course, Hiram was right. Nothing was wrong, no harm was done, and both his children were home, safe. The what-ifs, though, were hard to ignore. They raced through his brain like colts: raising dust and obscuring his view of other thoughts.

"I know," he croaked.

"It was stupid of me – I don't know what I was thinking," said Hiram, clearly just to appease him. He knew, though, knew what Hiram was thinking, because he'd thought the very same thing himself. He sighed, nodding his head, and as his eyes closed, he buried his face in the crook of his lover's neck. His own arms slipped around the torso he knew so well, securing his hold.

He couldn't blame his husband. Not really. Not when he'd been tempted – not when he'd done it before… He'd known, though, that this was not the way to learn about their son. They had to be patient – something neither man had ever been good at – and give the teenager time to acclimatize himself. But it was hard not knowing what was going through his head, not knowing if he was doing all right, if he was improving, if he was happy. It was clear enough that he wasn't happy – not really. Not yet. But what would make him happy? Neither man knew the answer to that.

"S-so…," LeRoy murmured. The pang of guilt was already hitting him, but he ignored it. "What did you hear?" He felt the other man grin and chuckle – almost like he'd been waiting for this. And then LeRoy reminded himself that Hiram probably had.

Monday came far quicker than Blaine could really have anticipated, and before he knew it, he was pulling up in front of McKinley High. The building loomed, far more threatening than Blaine remembered.

"Have a good day at school," said Hiram with an encouraging smile.

Blaine looked at him but couldn't bring himself to smile, or even respond. His lips pressed into a taught line and the teen nodded curtly, as if accepting a fate he wasn't ready to face. He did face it though. Blaine opened the car door and stepped out of the Prius, hiked his bag onto his right shoulder, and glanced once around before he set off towards the school. Behind him he could hear his – Hiram's – voice as the older man called out his goodbyes. Blaine ignored him. He knew, more or less, where the office was and that was where he needed to be.

Without looking anyone in the eye, the boy steeled himself and entered the building, heading purposefully in the direction of the office, saying nothing to no one and hoping, for the time at least, to blend in better here than at his last school.

The morning went surprisingly well for Blaine. It wasn't until third period that anyone even acknowledged the fact that he was new.

"You're Blaine," said the curly-haired man in the red sweater. He smiled brightly at the teen, who took his smile as a clear sign of naivete that neither his History nor Geometry teacher shared. He took it as a sign that the man was glad to have him in his class – and worse, expected Blaine to be just as glad to be there. He felt the dread build in his stomach.

"Yeah, I know," he responded flatly, and the teacher's smile faltered for just a second.

"I'm Mr. Shoe," said sweater-guy. "I'm your Spanish teacher."

Blaine bit back the smart-ass comment on the tip of his tongue, averted his eyes and nodded. He turned to walk to an empty desk, but Mr. Shoe stopped him. "Hey, wait, Blaine!" The teen stopped in his tracks and cringed, because he knew what was coming before it came…

"Don't you want to introduce yourself to the class?" Then, to the class, he called out, "Hey guys, quiet down!"

Surprisingly, the din died down a bit, but three guys in letterman jackets were already looking directly at him. And one of them was Finn.

Shit.

Mr. Shoe continued, totally oblivious to the murderous expression that was etching itself on Blaine's face, "We have a new student joining us. And I think he'd like to introduce himself. Blaine? Why don't you take it away. Oh! And in Spanish, por favor." Blaine looked at him. He was smiling – apparently proud of himself for remembering he was supposed to be teaching a foreign language

Blaine tightened his grip on his backpack strap, hooked his left thumb in the pocket of his jeans, and exhaled a sigh. His eyes roved over the faces of his fellow students. Most looked bored. Some were smirking in a way that sent a shiver up Blaine's spine. At least one – an Asian guy – looked sympathetic, and Blaine made a mental note to stick to the Asian guy's side of the room. "Mi llamo Blaine Anderson y soy de Columbus, Ohio," he said flatly. He looked at Mr. Shoe.

"Why don't you tell us what you like to do on the weekends, Blaine? I mean, en los Sabados y Domingos?" continued Mr. Shoe.

More disgruntled than ever, Blaine let his gaze wander to the far corner where the small, smirking cluster of letterman jackets were sitting. He struggled not to break eye contact with the neanderthal. "I box," he said in a firm, clear voice. He didn't even bother speaking in Spanish this time. "Can I sit down now? Or is there something else you want to know?"

Yeah, ok, so maybe that was a bit more attitude than necessary, but he couldn't go into this school with a target on his back. Not this time. Not again.

Shoe's eyebrows twitched in mild concern. "No. Puedes tener tu assento," he said in the most Gringo accent Blaine had ever heard from a Spanish teacher. It also wasn't lost on the boy that the teacher's sentence was about as far from correct as it could have gotten – grammatically speaking. Blaine just nodded once, though, and headed to the empty seat directly behind the Asian kid. He sunk down into it, pulled out his notebook and a pen, and said nothing for the rest of the class. Mr. Shoe, for his part, seemed to have learned his lesson and didn't try making Blaine speak again, which was both a relief and a blessing. As soon as the bell rang, Blaine ducked straight out of the classroom and disappeared around a corner before the letterman jackets were even at the door.