A/N: Thanks for the reviews. This part gets quite intense, so please remember the warnings in part one.

Part Two

Dalton Academy emptied out and quieted down on weekends. Students from Columbus, Akron, Cincinnati, and Cleveland went home to see their families and often dragged other boarders along so they could spend time away from the close confines of boarding school. They complained about the food, homework, lack of girls, and how much they missed their families and friends back home.

Wes usually endured the hundred mile trip to Toledo on the weekends. Sometimes David, Nick, and Jeff came with him. Occasionally he stayed in Westerville and caught up on homework or went to Columbus to visit his Aunts. He had politely excused himself from any family activity this weekend and opted to stay on campus. It was close to eight by the time he made it back to Dalton. Curfew was strictly enforced, even for seniors. A handful of students laughed and hollered as they played Halo in the upstairs lounge.

"Hey Wes!" Troy smiled as he shot at Ryan's character. "Want in on the game?"

"Not tonight." Wes returned the smile. "I'm a little tired—I need to hit the books for that killer advanced physics final. Why aren't you guys studying for it?"

"We were," Nick rolled his eyes, "But unlike you—all we care about is graduating with a 3.5 GPA or above. We'll still get into any colleges we apply for."

"Speak for yourself, Nick," Desmond stared coldly at Wes, "I can't wait to get out of this place."

"I heard about your ambitious plans for a poorly planned tour with your band," Wes sneered, "A band that has what, two fans and operates out of a studio basement."

"I get that you're the Warbler's brain child," Desmond scoffed, "And that you wouldn't know aboriginality if it hit you in your gigantic head, Tracy Flick."

Wes balled his hands into furious, tight fists. Tracy Flick. He hated being compared that fictitious overachiever. Desmond was the only student that would say it to his face, even though Wes knew others whispered it behind his back. The four way student presidential race had gotten extremely ugly last year and resulted in one student getting expelled for rigging the election. It didn't matter that Wes had rigged the race and framed the chubby sophomore for it. He would have simply lost the race fair and square, but his father had pressed him to win it. It will look good on your resume. Just think of what the admissions board at Harvard will think when they see that highlight. You aren't trying hard enough, Wesley! You need to win that race! They didn't understand the kind of pressure he faced—or how guilty he still felt about cheating. Everyone except Desmond believed that sophomore was guilty: the evidence spoke for itself.

"Guys, we're supposed to be past this." Troy was clearly uncomfortable with the thick tension in the room. "We're seniors now. It's our last year together. Come on…all that stuff is in the past. It doesn't matter anymore."

"Tell that to Sam Evans," Desmond glowered, "As usual, Flick here has been a real killjoy. I'm out of here."

Desmond chucked his remote at Troy and angrily stalked out of the room. Wes stared after him and unclenched his fists. The tall, lean red head had a way of getting under his skin.

"I don't know why you two always have to bring up that whole messy affair," Nick sighed, "The student body looked at the evidence. It's been settled. We know you didn't do anything wrong, Wes."

Suddenly, the room felt smaller. He had done something wrong, and he certainly didn't deserve their sympathy. Tears pricked at his eyes, but he couldn't let them fall here. Be a man, Wesley.

"Yeah," he croaked, "I think I'm going to call it a night."

Wes abruptly spun on his heels and fled from the senior lounge. A soft, soulful voice drifted into the hallway from a familiar room. He stopped his frantic flight and listened as Blaine sang in his room. Angel you sing about beautiful things, and all I want to do is believe. It wasn't a song he recognized, but the other boy's voice calmed his nerves.

"You sounded great." Wes smiled as he entered the room without an invitation. "What song were you singing?"

"Wes," Blaine said, surprised, "I thought you went back to Toledo for the weekend."

"No," He answered and brushed his fingers against Blaine's cheek. "I stayed."

Blaine anxiously clutched the gray and white scarf wrapped around his neck. It was expensive and well designed. Wes had never seen the shorter boy in anything except plain, collared shirts, khakis, or jeans. Blaine's wardrobe wavered between boring, ugly, and tacky. It was a result of too many boarding schools, an indifferent father, and a mentally ill mother. Donning uniforms for years on end tended to mess with someone's ability to dress properly. Wes used to have the same problem until he started dating Julie and let the fashionista talk him into a new look.

"Nice scarf." Wes stepped closer to Blaine and stroked his chest. "Did you go to the mall today?"

Blaine started tugging the scarf off, but Wes stopped him when he saw the neatly printed initials on a small tag: KH. He's wearing Kurt's scarf. His hands quaked as he yanked the fine wrap from Blaine's neck. The initials mocked Wes and all he could feel was a burning, jealous rage.

"You're wearing too many clothes," Wes hissed as he pushed Blaine onto the bed, "Take off your shirt."

The teen trembled and bit his lip, but he slowly removed the faded band t-shirt. Wes gently kissed him and brushed a thumb over his nipple. Blaine arched into the touch and started kissing back. He relaxed as Wes pressed him down on the mattress and playfully nipped at his collarbone. Wes pinned Blaine's wrists to the pillow and reached for the scarf near the end of the bed. The scarf held firm as he tied it around the head board and wrapped the remaining material tightly around Blaine's wrists.

"W-what are you doing?" Blaine stared at him with wide, startled eyes and pulled against his bonds. "Untie me, Wes."

"Don't worry," Wes smiled, "You'll enjoy this."

Blaine cried out as he dug his fingers into a fading bruise on his hip. Wes kissed the other boy forcefully to shut him up and unbuckled his belt.

"Untie me," Blaine demanded, "Now. I don't like this."

"Be quiet," Wes glared, "You'll like it soon enough."

"Wes, please." Blaine struggled beneath Wes' hands and started kicking his legs.

A foot connected with his ribs. Wes swore and instinctively swung his fist. Blaine whimpered as knuckles struck his kidneys. He really didn't mean to hit the other boy so hard, but Blaine finally stopped fighting. Wes leaned down and kissed his bruised stomach.

"I'm sorry," He mumbled, "I'll make you feel really good, I promise."

The sun was well over the horizon by the time Wes returned from Fitzy's Diner with breakfast for two. Each box contained different items: eggs, wheat toast, spiced potatoes, and two biscuits. He juggled one coffee (black, no sugar) and one chai tea (authentic, with soy milk) on top of the take out containers. The food was still hot despite the drive across town and a trip up three flights of stairs. Wes didn't bother knocking once he reached Blaine's room.

Jack was in Cleveland for his sister's wedding and wouldn't be back until Tuesday morning. Wes liked Blaine's roommate well enough, but he was failing most of his classes and sold drugs to the students at Dalton. The drugs of choice among the student body were speed, cocaine, ecstasy, and high quality marijuana. Wes' favorites were speed for long, all night cram sessions and ecstasy when he needed to feel good and Blaine was unavailable.

Blaine lay curled on his side and faced the wall. Wes set the boxes down on his desk and put the cups on the nightstand.

"Good morning," He greeted, "I brought you breakfast."

"I'm not hungry," Blaine croaked, "I'm trying to sleep."

Wes frowned, annoyed that he didn't want breakfast. They had already missed the morning meal down in the cafeteria and chapel started in an hour. He had driven clear across Westerville and waited in line with early morning church goers, and Blaine didn't appreciate the effort.

"Hey," Wes started as he stroked Blaine's shoulder, "What's the matter? You love Fitzy's."

Blaine jerked free from his touch and yanked the blanket up to his shoulders.

"You hurt me, Wes," Blaine sniffed into his pillow, "You—hit me, and then you—you."

His words trailed off into quiet sobs. Wes blinked at him in surprise.

"You certainly didn't complain last night," He snarled, "You've never had a problem with anything we've done in the past, and I distinctly remember you enjoying everything I did to you last night."

"I don't want you to be here," Blaine said softly, "Please-just leave me alone."

This wasn't supposed to happen. Wes couldn't lose him. They had never had any problems before Kurt Hummel came along. Wes needed Blaine: nothing else belonged to him. Lee Kim ruled over his life like a heartless dictator and everything from his extracurricular activities to his girlfriend were predetermined. He hated Dalton and its stifling environment. The Warblers and playing the violin were unwanted substitutes for singing in a band and learning to play the guitar like Desmond. Wes would become a lawyer and work in his father's law firm even though he wanted to be a ballet dancer.

"I'm not leaving."

"There's a no harassment policy here," Blaine turned over and his dark eyes finally focused on him, "It's strictly enforced…don't you remember what happened to Sam?"

Wes flinched at the words. Anger swelled in his belly. He covered Blaine's mouth with one hand and gripped his untamed curls with the other.

"I remember," He whispered, "But there was a reason he harassed me last year-I was the one that planted the drugs in his room. You don't think I couldn't do the same to you?"

Blaine's eyes widened even further at the revelation, because he had never confessed to anyone except Scott Lee what he had done to ensure his victory. Planting the drugs had been Scott's idea and he had also suggested sabotaging Sam's chances by messing with his homework and criticizing his weight. It worked like a charm and he'd thanked Scott for his creativity.

"What do you think it would take, Blaine," he began and tugged on a curl, "To send you back to Bollman?"

Blaine made a muffled protest. Wes swung his legs over the smaller teen's hips and straddled his waist.

"I think planting drugs in here would be a bit redundant," he joked, "There's so many other things I could do to get you expelled. I could mention the flask in your book bag, or how worried I am about your mental health-and just think: if I did that, they'd send you to a counselor and then before you know it, you'll be sharing a padded room with your mother."

Wes smiled thinly as Blaine's breaths quickened against his hand. Relief flooded through his veins. Blaine would start cooperating again, Puckerman would woo Kurt back to McKinley, and life would go on as normal. Something in Blaine's hands sparkled under the bright incandescent light. Wes released the teen's curls and slowly uncoiled his fingers, surprised when he saw a colorful bug brooch.

"Can I have this?"

Wes ignored Blaine's dismayed look and nonchalantly pocketed the brooch. The metal was warm as he ran his fingers along the brooch's ridges. He released Blaine's hair and promptly climbed off him, knowing their power struggle was over for now.

"Chapel starts soon," He informed Blaine, "Why don't you show me how much you appreciate breakfast in bed?"

Blaine started at the suggestive tone, but he slid out of the twin bed and obligingly got on his knees. It was funny: Wes had never realized how beautiful Blaine was when he cried.