A/N: Thank you for all the reviews. I consider all those alerts/favorites reviews:).

Part Three

Dalton wasn't a large school and upper level classes often included students from every grade level. Meals were served in the cafeteria at specific times. The library was crowded since finals week had arrived and everyone buckled down to cram for merciless exams. The Warblers practiced less and officially disbanded for winter break last week. It was quite difficult to actively ditch a fellow student without raising suspicions.

Avoiding Wes turned out to be remarkably easy as long as Blaine ditched dinner, stayed out of the library, and skipped gym with a skillfully forged doctor's note. The senior was bogged down with finals like everyone else and only managed to hunt him down yesterday evening. Blaine made a successful dash for an impromptu study session with David and Kurt while Wes coldly declined an invitation to join them, much to his relief.

Winter break started in two more days. Wes would go back to Toledo, where he could unwind and spend time with Julie. Blaine hoped that his friend would return when he got back, the one that didn't hit him or pressure him for sex. He wanted the friend that helped him with math, laughed at his jokes, and listened to his problems. Wes had never been mean or violent before.

Blaine didn't understand what had suddenly changed-he thought the older boy was finally coming around and admitting his true feelings when the unexpected gifts started to appear. It was nice at first. Wes was the first boy that had showed any interest at all towards him. While Blaine knew he would never come out of the closet, he had always been genuine and sweet when they were alone together.

At first, their clandestine relationship was exciting and new: they made out in closets between classes and carefully explored each other's bodies. Eventually, Blaine grew tired of hiding once he realized they could never go on a date, dance, or hold hands in public. Spending one weekend in Cleveland together over the summer had been nice. Wes had ensured their first time was special, but he wanted more than one secret rendezvous in a strange city.

Blaine glanced at his pocket watch as he hurried down the hall. Dinner was over and students spilled into the corridor. He wouldn't dare to go back to his room. Wes would certainly come looking before curfew and lights out. The senior was already heading towards the staircase. Blaine's heartbeat raced as he dashed for Kurt's room.

The younger boy answered after the first knock. Blaine smiled half-heartedly and quickly shut the door. Several shoe boxes and a thick photograph album sat on the floor.

"I didn't see you at dinner," Kurt greeted warmly; "I saved you a seat."

"I ate too many tacos this afternoon at lunch," Blaine lied, "I wasn't hungry. What's with the boxes?"

It was easy redirecting the other boy's attention. Kurt seemed more energized and happy than he'd been the previous week. Blaine knew Dalton's rigid routine took some getting used to, but he thought the adorable soprano was adjusting well.

"I took advantage of Puck," Kurt smirked, "I helped him pick out some gifts for the Glee Club, an 'I'm sorry for making out with your girlfriend—again—'gift for Finn, and a non-romantic, strictly platonic gift for Rachel. In return for my shopping prowess, he offered to buy me shoes."

"You know someone whose name is Puck?" Blaine frowned. "It sounds like a dog's name."

Kurt laughed and eyed the boxes as he rearranged items in the closet. The sophomore didn't have a roommate since he'd transferred halfway through the semester. Blaine walked over to the barren bed and winced as he sat down. The bruises Wes had left on his body still ached terribly. They had faded from deep, dark purple into a colorful blue and yellow mixture. He knew they were slowly healing, but it still hurt to sit down, and for the last three nights he had to sleep on his stomach.

"His real name is Noah Puckerman." Kurt prattled happily. "Puck is a ridiculous nickname he adopted sometime during middle school. He's the guy with the Mohawk you saw up on stage with New Directions."

"It sounds like you had a good weekend," Blaine smiled, "How are your finals going?"

"It was an interesting weekend," Kurt said thoughtfully, "And I think they're going well-I'm tired of studying, though. I've got two more finals in the next two days, but I can't look at my trigonometry textbook anymore or my head will explode."

Blaine watched his friend sift through another box containing a few knickknacks, mismatched buttons, thread, sewing materials, and brooches. He gripped the edge of the mattress and forced a few deep breaths.

"I seem to have misplaced my favorite brooch," Kurt sighed with frustration, "I am certain it was in here."

It was in there on Friday. Blaine didn't say the words out loud, but he knew telling Kurt the truth was not an option. I was in your room checking on Pavarotti Friday night, but I stayed a few hours longer than I should have because I was avoiding Wes. I got bored and curious, so I went through some of your things, and your things are just as beautiful as you are. That bug brooch and your scarf caught my attention because they reminded me of my grandmother, so I borrowed them without your permission. I was going to put them back, I swear, but Wes showed up looking for a good time and decided he liked that brooch too. I can't even think about that scarf right now. Kurt would think he was pathetic, insane, and a kleptomaniac if he actually articulated those thoughts.

"What's wrong?"

Kurt looked up from his box and frowned once he realized his friend's silence. Shit. Blaine stared at his shoes and hoped he would leave it alone.

"Nothing," he lied, "Are you sure your brooch was in there?"

The soprano stood, quietly walked over to the twin bed, and sat beside him.

"Blaine," he worried, "You're trembling."

The poignant tone brought tears to Blaine's eyes: there was no way to hold them back any longer. Kurt seemed surprised at the sudden outburst, but he wrapped his arms around his torso and pulled him into a tight embrace. Blaine welcomed the embrace while he cried loudly against his chest. Kurt held him for a long time and didn't complain as a large wet spot formed on his white undershirt.

An alarm jolted Blaine from a light doze. Glaring red numbers displayed the time: 9:45. The resident manager would make rounds for lights out in fifteen minutes. He needed to go back to his own room. Kurt gently rubbed his back and expertly massaged his sore muscles. Blaine didn't know when he had started the massage, but it eased the constant pain. It felt wonderful.

"Where did you learn to do that?" He asked sleepily.

"I recently spent some time with a Sikh," Kurt explained, "When my father was in the hospital, I hired Etana. She's an Acupuncturist and worked on helping my Dad. She gave me a few free massages once she saw how worked up I was. I've been seeing her ever since."

Blaine remembered hearing about Burt Hummel's medical problems, but Kurt had glossed over a lot of the details. The countertenor had remarkable strength and determination.

"If my father had a heart attack and fell into a coma," Blaine speculated, "Everyone in the family would be squabbling over his fortune within seconds. Some of them might even pull the plug early or smother him with a pillow if got them closer to his money. Including my stepmother—who is only five years older than me."

"Is that why you're upset?" Kurt prodded, horrified by the offhand confession. "I get the impression you're not close to your family."

"What gave it away?" He knew it sounded bitter, but he didn't really care about most of his immediate or extended family.

"There aren't any family photos in your room," Kurt replied, "And you never talk about any of them except your grandparents."

He debated telling him the standard lie he told everyone at Dalton: that his mother lived in London and his father loved him, but he didn't want to lie to Kurt. The other boy had entrusted so much to Blaine. He deserved at least some truths.

"My father's been married five times and divorced four," He relented, "I was from his first marriage. He divorced my mother when she was diagnosed with Catatonic Schizophrenia."

"I'm sorry," Kurt squeezed his shoulder, "That must have been very difficult to deal with as a child."

"It was," Blaine somberly agreed, "I was ten when she was placed in a private hospital. I went to live with my grandparents a few months before that. Things get a little hard for me this time of year."

It wasn't a lie. Blaine's grandparents did the best they could, but they were getting older and lived in Tucson. His grandfather had Parkinson's disease. His grandmother called at least once a week to check up on him and make sure things were going well at Dalton. The alarm clock buzzed again. Blaine squeezed Kurt's warm hands and haphazardly rolled off the bed.

"Thanks," he blushed, "I'm sorry I freaked out on you."

"I don't mind," Kurt smiled again, "I've freaked out on you before. Turnabout's fair play."

Blaine grinned and reluctantly said his goodbyes since he was pressed for time. Kurt hugged him once more at the door. He felt better as he walked away from his friend, even though they had never actually talked about what was really bothering him: Wes. Friday was right around the corner and he wouldn't see the attractive Asian until the New Year. Hopefully, Wes would come back to Dalton with regret and understanding.

"Where have you been?"

Wes' low, angry voice abruptly jerked Blaine from his wistful musings. The senior rushed down the staircase and brutally slammed him into the wall. Blaine wheezed in pain.

"I was looking for you," Wes seethed, "I texted you, and I called you—what were you doing?"

"I was studying," Blaine lied in a flat, scared whisper. "I turned my phone off. Lights out is in five minutes."

"Hey!"

They both jumped at the unexpected interruption. Most of the students were already in their rooms, not wanting an unpleasant confrontation with Mr. Doyle. The resident manager was a stickler for enforcing every rule at Dalton. Only the bravest students wandered back to their rooms two minutes before lights out. Blaine was more desperate than brave, and hiding from someone he considered a good friend. At this point, risking detention was better than another encounter with Wes. Seniors had to be in their rooms by ten, but they could leave their lights on and stay up all night if they wanted to do so. Wes was so close graduating and first in the senior class: punishment was unlikely unless he did something really extreme.

Desmond Martin was bolder than most of the student body at Dalton and pushed the envelope as far as he could without getting suspended or expelled. He was a classic rich boy, but somewhere along the way he'd decided singing in an obscure band and partying were worth more effort than his education or career. The red head proudly maintained a C average and befriended kids from the local public school. Rumor had it he was currently involved in a threesome with a male dancer and a female sax player from Westerville High. Dalton's rumor mill was inaccurate at best, so Blaine figured all the gossip about Desmond was probably nothing more than exaggeration.

"What the hell is going on here?" Desmond demanded as he ran up the stairs, "I know Anderson is the Sam to your Frodo, but I don't think that warrants this."

"Back off, Martin," Wes glowered, tightening his grip on Blaine's arms, "It's just a little rough housing. Nothing more."

Blaine flattened his hands against the wall and winced.

"I saw the whole thing," Desmond coldly replied, "And it sure as hell didn't look like a playful shove. Christ—just look at Anderson. He's terrified."

He couldn't deny it. Wes released his arms and gave him a light pat on the back.

"You're imagining things Desmond," Wes remarked, "We were just messing around, right Blaine?"

Blaine nodded numbly and stumbled up a few steps. Desmond grimaced in disgust as Mr. Doyle appeared at the bottom of the staircase.

"Gentlemen," the gray haired teacher greeted, "It's five past ten. I'm sure you're aware that loitering here is frowned upon. Please return to your rooms, before I start passing out detention slips."

The three teenagers scrambled away from the stairs and into the third floor hallway. Blaine's stomach lurched as he entered his dorm room. Jack was already passed out and snoring lightly. The scrawny blond boy slept like the dead and never suffered from insomnia due to the large stash of drugs he had in his sock drawer. He made a beeline for the toilet and immediately threw up.

New bruises would appear on his shoulders in the morning. Blaine rested his head against the porcelain toilet and wiped the corners of his mouth. Desmond had been appalled he'd denied everything. It shouldn't have been a surprise to anyone. Blaine always was a coward.