Chapter Summary: Everything explodes.

A/N: Thank you to ancka for the wonderful help. This chapter was really, really hard to write. Um … don't kill me? *ducks*

"Just stay calm," Blaine whispered fervently by his ear. "If anything happens, just promise me you'll stay calm."

Andrew opened the door wider.

"Let's bring this inside. Quiet, now. Wouldn't want to disturb the school day."

Kurt could only half-concentrate as they were ushered into the room, his mind reeling from the certainty of the boy in front of him: this was Andrew. The phantom villain of Blaine's stories of Dalton; that presence he rarely talked about but was always there, looming like a shadow over every conversation, hidden in generalizations and vagaries until Blaine had finally named him one late afternoon on a couch. The enormity of meeting the boy who had had such an influence over Blaine's life was too much to process, what with everything else that Kurt was dealing with.

And he was a Fascinator.

Kurt didn't know why that one surprised him; in retrospect, Blaine had as much as told him what Andrew was—hadn't he said he'd been positive Andrew was going to be the one to kill him? So Andrew must have been a Fascinator. It was stupid; he should accept the fact and move on, but Kurt couldn't get past it.

He felt like he had been tainted because of the fact of this boy's existence, and it was stupid, but Andrew was a Fascinator. Like Kurt. He felt something squeeze around his heart.

There were a group of boys in the choir room, all dressed in the same uniform Andrew was wearing—the same outfit Kurt had found Blaine in the night he'd appeared in the backyard—and Kurt would have taken a closer look at them but he couldn't stop his eyes from dragging back to look at Andrew every time he looked away.

There was something magnetic about him. Kurt could see why Blaine had been drawn to him.

"You were in my head," the words exited his mouth before he thought to give them leave.

Andrew's mouth twisted upward in amusement. "Not in your head," he corrected. "In your ear. Blaine's the only one who can get into your head."

Kurt glanced in surprise at Blaine. What? Blaine met his eyes briefly before guiltily looking away.

One more thing Blaine had hidden from him. What else hadn't he been told? Kurt closed his eyes against his rising frustration.

Now was not the time.

"'In my ear,'" Kurt quoted, voice firm. "How?"

Andrew's eyebrows raised. "Magic trick," he grinned.

Kurt gave him a hard look.

"Oh, ouch!" Andrew laughed, looking around at the boys gathered around them and shrugging in good humor. "He's not impressed."

The other boys chuckled and Kurt tensed as he noticed how close they'd gotten. He cursed himself for not paying attention. Somehow, Andrew had ushered them into the middle of the choir room, and a circle of uniformed boys was slowly forming and tightening around them, blocking any way out. He glanced backward out of the corner of his eye at the well-muscled blond boy stepping up behind him. He and Blaine shifted closer together as if on cue, fingers reaching for each other before flinching away at the sting as their skin brushed. Invisible claws raked down the back of Kurt's neck as he looked towards Blaine—whose face remained as closed to him as his emotions. Kurt clenched his jaw and looked away.

A hand wrapped itself carefully around Kurt's, and squeezed. It burned.

Kurt closed his eyes and squeezed back.

"What do you want?" he asked, opening his eyes to look at Andrew. His back prickled from the heat of the threatening body behind him, but Andrew was studying their clasped hands with an expression Kurt couldn't read.

"A month, and you've got him eating out of the palm of your hand," he said wonderingly, raising his eyes to stare intently at Blaine. "Only a month. Bravo." Kurt couldn't tell if Andrew was talking to him or to Blaine, but his skin crawled at the tone nonetheless. Blaine remained stone, face as still as if it were made of marble.

"What do you want?" Kurt asked again.

Andrew's gaze swept slowly down Blaine's body, lingering in ways that made Kurt's shoulders tighten in fierce defensiveness. He glared as Andrew finally looked away from their hands and met his eyes, resisting the irrational urge to growl. Blaine's grip on his hand tightened and trickles of strained emotion flowed up Kurt's arm.

"We want Blaine," Andrew stated finally, and Kurt almost expected a 'duh' to follow. Brown eyes flashed in challenge. "He ran away, and we want him back. He belongs with us."

The boys around them shifted a step closer.

Kurt's hand was throbbing, Blaine was holding so tightly, but no words escaped the boy next to him.

"You're not getting him," Kurt declared for him defiantly. "He doesn't want to go back."

"He never should have left," one of the boys spoke up, and several others voiced their angry agreement. Kurt eyes darted around the circle warily, and he stepped closer to Blaine, attempting to block him from view.

"Come on, boys, let's keep this civil," Andrew said loudly over the brewing storm, watching him with those shrewd eyes. "We don't want to frighten the poor kid." The crowd of boys settled down as if commanded. The full power of Andrew's attention focused on Kurt, and Kurt's stomach clenched as the same magnetism of earlier drew him in. "Dalton keeps him safe, Kurt. "

"He's safe here. With me."

"We both know that's not true."

Kurt's heart plunged into his stomach.

No, that was right. Because Blaine was going to dieif he stayed with Kurt.

"What kind of protection can you offer him?" Andrew asked the question that was running through Kurt's mind. "Dalton is the safest place for him."

"He ran away for a reason," Kurt insisted weakly.

"A reason he no doubt told you," Andrew replied, and Kurt stilled. "Because Blaine tells you everything, doesn't he?"

Kurt swallowed, glancing back at where he knew Blaine was standing, stoic and giving nothing, as he had remained this entire time. Even the trickle of magic sliding up his arm had nothing recognizable to it. Kurt struggled to stay calm.

Blaine had been hiding things from him; Kurt being a Fascinator, his own eventual death, his apparent ability to get inside Kurt's head (!)… He had never told him why he ran away from Dalton. He had never told him anything about what led to his collapse in Kurt's backyard that night.

Kurt didn't know what to think.

He knew Blaine could feel everything he was feeling. His grip on his hand was excruciating… but there was no squeeze of reassurance this time.

And Blaine still refused to open his mouth and speak.

It was hard not to feel abandoned.

"He's told me about you," Kurt clung to the image of the Blaine he knew—of the boy who had lain on the couch with him and murmured dark secrets into his ear. "He's told me what you did to him. What you all did to him," he amended, looking around the circle accusingly. A few in the group shuffled forward threateningly.

Andrew raised an eyebrow. "That so?" he asked, looking curious. "And what did we do to him?"

"You forced him to do things he didn't want to do," Kurt stated. "You violated-"

A strong burst of chaos exploded up his arm and Kurt's head whipped around to stare in shock at its source. Blaine's eyes were a wide, wild amber, his hand shaking in Kurt's grip and his attention wholly consumed by Andrew.

-'When I'm overwhelmed, I bleed out the excess emotion through magic.'—

"Blaine…" Kurt breathed, tightening his hold on his hand even as it scorched his fingers. The heat was agonizing, and Kurt was starting to wonder how much of the pain was from the fact of their touching and how much was Blaine's temperature. All of his color had drained into two high spots on his cheeks, his skin shining with exertion.

"Two Fascinators a bit too much for you, Blaine?" Andrew asked quietly, a complicated interest coloring his expression. Jumbled tangles of emotion were exploding in short intervals up Kurt's arm, thrashing into his veins with a violence that made Kurt flinch. "But then again, it isn't just us, is it? There are twenty other people surrounding you, too. You feel them. Don't you."

They weren't questions. The shaking in Blaine's hand traveled up his arm, into his torso—as Andrew spoke, Blaine's limbs began to shake in small tremors.

Kurt covered their clasped fingers with his other hand. "Blaine, just focus on me, it's okay," he muttered urgently.

"And then there's the school. Every braindead student sitting in class, pretending to take notes; every teacher; nurse; attendant; parent, coming to pick up a kid: you feel that. That's a bit too much. Isn't it."

Blaine was tense; every muscle was coiled tight, his tremors turning into huge, full-body shudders. He was breathing too fast. Kurt held on as tightly as he could, trying to be his anchor as floods of emotion, of magic, uncontrolled and heady and hungry to the point of being painful were forced into his veins. Blaine's words from what seemed like months ago echoed in his head: "It was mostly just physical stuff, just doing things. Sometimes feelings."

Andrew had gotten closer, somehow, at some point, but Kurt couldn't really focus because fear and regret and guilt and amusement were tumbling into him and he couldn't tell which was Blaine and which was him and which was Andrew, or the boys around them, or the people outside of the choir room, continuing on with school like there wasn't anything wrong, and nothing could be processed or thought about, only felt and he tried to swallow down his panic and his fear and his amuse—and his—someone's—Blaine's—he had to let this happen, let Blaine give to him what his body couldn't handle because Kurt could handle it, Kurt had to be his anchor, Kurt couldn't let Andrew—

Andrew hunched over to meet Blaine's eyes, his hand coming up to cradle Blaine's jaw. "You've had worse than this," he murmured, eyes feverish in their intensity. "Stop sabotaging yourself."

Blaine only stared fiercely back.

Andrew's lips moved to his ear.

…"he didn't even have to concentrate and he could get me to do anything"…

"Let go of his hand, Blaine," he whispered.

And Blaine let go.

Kurt sagged backwards and the boy behind him caught him before he fell, twisting his arms behind his back and covering his mouth as he tried to call out for Blaine—

He was choking on something, something had been pushed into his mouth by the hand now covering his lips and Kurt tried to spit it out but—

"This isn't what it seems," the boy holding him whispered in his ear. Kurt tried to elbow free, his noises of protest muffled by the hand, but fingers suddenly came up to plug his nose. "Swallow it. Trust me."

Blaine had fallen forward into Andrew, gripping the other boy's forearms so hard his nails broke skin. Kurt's head grew fuzzy as his breath ran out, and he struggled against his captor's arms as Blaine moved with a ferocity Kurt had never before seen in him, violence and desperation thrumming through his muscles, pushing Andrew away—and Andrew matched him, latching on like a leech as Blaine's arms shook, the magic he had been hammering into Kurt now flooding into Andrew's blood and something feral sparked in Blaine's eyes—

Kurt's throat convulsed and the hand moved away. He fell boneless against the body holding him, sucking in air, finally, as a thick tar slid down his throat and began to lick down his ribs and over his heart. What had he just swallowed?

"That's it!" Andrew was crowing triumphantly. "There you go! You've been silent since I opened the door, beautiful. Why so closed up? Talk to me!"

And words broke open Blaine's mouth: "You told me to come quietly, you fucking bastard!"

Shocked laughter exploded out of Andrew as he wrestled to keep Blaine in his grasp.

"I did, didn't I?" Andrew laughed. Blaine did not look amused. "I forgot about that. Sorry!" His tone was playful and boyish in its energy, and Kurt watched, morbidly fascinated, as a genuine smile lit up his face. "What did you want to say, Blaine? Go ahead and say it!" Blaine was electric energy. Andrew let out another laugh. "Man, I missed this!"

"I didn't," Blaine snarled.

The circle of boys had stepped back, giving the two space—from the glances some of them were sharing, the move seemed to be more out of fear than out of politeness. Kurt started to shiver as the itching pain of his headache began to crawl over his scalp, still half in shock from the overpowering outpouring of emotion his body had been subjected to. He felt like he was living in two climates: a numbness was beginning to tingle down his throat and around his heart, spreading viscously over his ribs with the slow progression of whatever oil he had swallowed, while his arms and head and stomach began to burn in saharic heat. He felt lightheaded.

"Where's Erickson?" Blaine sounded panicked.

"Why?" Andrew said, eyes gleaming with interest, "Do you feel him?"

"Yes," Blaine responded immediately, and Kurt knew he wasn't imagining the fear coloring the word. Andrew traded a triumphant look with a brown-haired boy in the circle. "Where is he?"

"Not in the room."

"You can't give me to him." Blaine was frantic, words spilling out of his mouth faster than Kurt could register them. "You can't, you can't—"

"We'll do whatever we want to," Andrew said firmly. "You should have thought of what he'd do to you before you decided to run away."

"I did," Blaine said, so fearfully definite that his meaning couldn't be mistaken.

"How did you find us?" Kurt couldn't help but ask, his head beginning to throb. "How did you even know where Blaine was?"

"He led us here."

"How?" Blaine shot back, the word crackling out of his mouth.

"You ripped a doorway into your Fascinator's backyard when you left Dalton," Andrew started, but Blaine was shaking his head.

"No, I closed it," he was distressed, certain, "You can't have found me through that, I'd closed—"

"But not before Flint slipped through," Andrew interrupted.

Blaine stumbled.

"What?" he asked, shock seeping into his voice.

"Yeah: it was Flint who told us where you were. We would've been lost otherwise."

"No," Blaine shook his head, "No, that can't be what—he doesn't—"

"It seems you've lost a few friends since you've left, Blaine."

Arms still shaking, hands in vice grips around Andrew's arms and looking frantically trapped, Blaine whipped his head around the circle of boys, searching for something desperately, his face a mask of disbelief. His gaze alighted briefly on the boy who was holding Kurt—and his amber, magic-soaked eyes widened in comprehension.

No, Blaine mouthed. Then again, betrayed: "No!"

It was as if the word had stolen everything that was keeping him upright. He dropped, suddenly, his legs giving out underneath him, and he fell into Andrew—who caught him, holding him up and pulling his back flush against his chest with surprising gentleness. Like a lover.

The numbness had spread to Kurt's stomach, but he still tasted acid in the back of his throat at the image.

"Can't burn it off, can you?" Andrew said, looking at Blaine with unconcealed sympathy. "You need to get used to this again, Blaine. You know what you're going back to."

Blaine was breathing too fast, his movements jerky and uncoordinated as he tried to break away from Andrew's hold. "Where's Erickson?" he demanded.

"I told you. He's not here."

"You're lying."

The numb oil had reached Kurt's head—and he sucked in a breath. His headache, the withdrawal, everything painful suddenly cut off.

Blaine's head snapped up to stare at him, look unreadable, as Kurt felt the itching fire inside his veins finally extinguish.

Kurt met his gaze in surprise. His whole body felt numb, and he couldn't think, but… but it didn't hurt anymore. How did that… Was it gone? Just like that? What the hell had he swallowed?

This isn't what it seems, the boy had said.

Blaine raised his eyes to look at the boy behind Kurt, expression clouded with incredulity.

"You can't," he said. "You can't—he'll die! He's going to die!" He moved toward Kurt, and Andrew tightened his grip, pulling Blaine back against him with a strong arm around his chest. Blaine cried out in protest.

"Hey now! I think we've had enough of you moving, beautiful," Andrew said, tugging him close. Blaine struggled. "Relax," he ordered, his lips next to Blaine's cheek, eyes raking down Kurt from over Blaine's shoulder. Blaine instantly slumped backward, boneless. Only his eyes betrayed his inner energy, burning intensely as they watched Kurt.

"He's going to die," he breathed.

"He's going to kill you." Andrew's eyes burned into Kurt's. Kurt was lost, aching, frozen. "We're not going to let that happen."

"Because you want to kill him?" Kurt found himself saying.

Andrew shifted his grip on Blaine possessively. "Blaine is not going to die—not at Dalton. Isn't that right, Blaine?" he pressed his lips to Blaine's cheek and Kurt's stomach clenched at the intimacy of the gesture. "We're going to set him free," he murmured against the skin.

Blaine shuddered.

"But you're a Fascinator," Kurt frowned. "How—?"

Andrew turned to Kurt, eyes glittering. "Contrary to what you might think," he said lowly, "he's not yours. He belongs with us. He belongs to me."

"He belongs to no one," Kurt said firmly, "He's a human being."

"He's not even remotely close to human," came a new voice, too old to be a student. Blaine jerked, eyes widening at the sound.

Kurt's attention snapped to the door, where—

"Mercedes!" he cried. A fox-faced older man was leading her through the doorway, a hand placed firmly on her shoulder, directing her toward the choir room chairs. She took in the scene before her with wide, watering eyes.

"I'm sorry, Kurt," she said softly, "Tina said you were so sick, and they said it was because of Blaine… they said they could help." He didn't have time to answer her as the rest of the glee club were suddenly pushed in, crowded into the room by three more Dalton boys.

"Kurt!" "What's going on?" "Kurt?" "Is that Blaine?" Their faces twisted in worry as they got a closer look.

"Who are you people and why are you in our choir room?" Rachel demanded. Finn frowned.

"Kurt, what's going on?"

"What are you doing to them?" asked Tina quietly.

A soft, terrible, pained noise came from Blaine, and Kurt was suddenly fiercely reminded that he couldn't handle the glee club well, even on his best days.

"Please—calm down," Kurt strained to get across to them, watching helplessly as Blaine slumped further against the body holding him. His friends were ushered next to him into the circle of boys, looking suddenly small amidst the huge group surrounding them.

"Andrew," the man said, and Andrew nodded once. One of his arms moved to grab Blaine's hand, bringing their interlaced fingers up to his lips. Blaine jerked hard, his eyes flashing, and suddenly the glee club cut off in silence. Rachel's eyes widened and she pressed against… it looked like a wall made of air. Kurt's heart leapt into his throat.

"What did you do?" he demanded anxiously, but the man didn't answer.

"Professor Erickson, I've done what I can, but he's not there yet," Andrew said, sounding for all intents and purposes like he was talking about a soufflé he'd put in the oven. Kurt saw red.

"How can you go on talking about him like that?" he cried, struggling against the arms holding him. "He's a human being, not a—!"

"He's not human," Erickson interrupted, frustration sharpening his voice. And before Kurt could do anything—could move, could scream, could—the man had a knife, and he was plunging it into Blaine's chest and Kurt couldn't even move, couldn't even scream, couldn't even—and the knife came out, thick with red, and Blaine let out a kind of choked grunt as it slid out past his ribs, and that's when Kurt saw Rachel's silent scream breaking the spell on the rest of the choir room, and Santana was mouthing profanities, and Finn was looking so small and lost, and Blaine's face was contorted in shock, pain, staring at Kurt like Kurt could help him and Kurt couldn't—

"All this drama," Erickson muttered, shaking his head. "Completely needless. Have you not been listening to me?" Erickson took out a handkerchief and calmly wiped off the blood—Blaine's blood—from his blade. "Blaine," he called, disinterest dulling the room. Blaine made a noise that sounded like gurgling, his face drained too-white. "Heal yourself. Quickly, please."

And Blaine convulsed, arms spasming around to claw behind him into the forearms of the boy holding him, his eyes filling with molten amber and large in his face as his mouth fell open and—

Time seemed to stop for one brief second, and Kurt suddenly was presented with a clear, unmoving image of that first day he had brought a stranger into his house: coming down to a wrecked living room. Everything toppled over and smashed.

And then he blinked.

It was like something exploded out of Blaine—a huge gust of wind, magic—and Kurt staggered as it pressed into him, pushing him backwards, something screaming past his ears and when it stopped he stumbled forward into granite arms. He looked up to find Blaine wilted against Andrew, breathing short, panting breaths with long intervals of terrifying nothing in between—his shirt still bloody, but the wound…

Completely healed.

Kurt couldn't breathe. He remembered an entire day of utter stillness. A river of dried blood on the ground.

Blaine wasn't human, he had told Kurt that, Kurt knew that, but…

But Blaine wasn't human.

"I can shift things into a pocket of space."

Blaine had hid all that blood from him that day by the tree. It hadn't been a hallucination. He had been injured—had he been in a coma? Had he… could he even die?

"Must have fallen…"

What had happened when he'd run away? Why hadn't he told Kurt about this—about Erickson, and Andrew, and what they were trying to do to him? Why hadn't he…

Why hadn't he told Kurt about all of this?

"I want to be honest with you. No more secrets anymore."

"Still no," Andrew was saying, and Erickson hummed thoughtfully.

"Being stubborn, are we?" he said.

Blaine's eyes found Kurt's, unreadable. Kurt wanted to set up a wall between them—like Blaine had done to Kurt. He couldn't be expected to deal with all of this by himself. Where was the boy who had helped him confront his bullies? Where was—Blaine, the honest, beautiful, passionate, caring Blaine Kurt had fallen in love with. The Blaine Kurt needed right now, needed to see, to feel, to hear, not this cut-off, closed-off stranger who had left him alone. Who had lied to him. Who remained still, silent, pliant to these people who were tearing him up like he was a piece of paper.

What had happened to Blaine?

Out of the corner of his eyes, Kurt saw Erickson surveying them both with a calculating gleam.

"Ah," he said quietly. "I see now. You're his Fascinator." He came to stand right in front of Kurt, blocking his view of the boy-who-used-to-be-Blaine and meeting his eyes. "What's your name, boy?"

Kurt stared back, defiant. (Defiance, Blaine, this is what it looks like, remember?) "Kurt Hummel," he said coldly.

"Kurt," the man tasted his name as if it were a fine wine. "He's certainly got his hooks into you, hasn't he?" He smiled a sympathetic grin, and it was all Kurt could do to stop himself from doing anything worse than glaring. Mercedes shifted protectively next to him. "How soon was it before he started you on it? Was it the first day you met? Or did he have enough self-control to wait until the week was out?"

"Just try it." A lazy afternoon on a couch. "Really try."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Kurt breathed, feeling violated.

"It's addicting, isn't it?" Erickson asked. "Like a drug. How does it feel right now, not to touch him? Not to use his power?" Kurt felt tears burning his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. He would not cry in front of this man. He and Blaine, they weren't what this man thought they were. They weren't. "Kurt, it's all right," Erickson soothed. "None of this is your fault." He turned to look at Blaine, who looked so small, helpless in another boy's grip, whose unreadable gaze was still locked on Kurt. "It's his."

He walked toward him, shark-like. "Because it is a drug. And he knows it. He can feel it, when we first have that taste, and he latches on like a leech." Kurt couldn't take his eyes away from Blaine. It wasn't true. Blaine was the sweetest person Kurt had ever… it wasn't true. Blaine's eyes stayed locked on his.

"Magic is ultimately a symbiotic being, Kurt," Erickson continued. "It needs people like you and me to live. People who will regulate its body. People who will help it rebalance when emotions get too high. People who feel so strongly, even a quiet emotion will sustain its life for days. It manifests itself in families, sometimes skipping centuries, sometimes generations. Forming itself into little pretend-people in order to better access humanity. An adorable baby that grows into a sweet child, surveying the world and learning its habits… before it unleashes its true colors after puberty." He stopped in front of Blaine, who was looking at him now, their eyes locked. "Turning into something all you little girls and boys crave." Kurt's skin crawled as Erickson placed a gentle hand on Blaine's jaw. "Something beautiful."—trailed it down his neck—"Vulnerable."—down his chest, and Blaine was starting to shake—"Enticing."—ending flat against his stomach. Blaine didn't look away, his breathing speeding up, and Kurt wanted to tear that hand away and break it.

"You see, Kurt," Erickson continued softly, eyes boring into Blaine's, "He may have told you any number of lies in order to gain your trust, but the truth is: Magic really only wants one thing…" His hand twisted, pressing into Blaine's stomach like the boy in Kurt's backyard, so many weeks ago, and Blaine arched—

"To be used."

Blaine cried out, and his eyes flashed, and Kurt sucked in a breath because that sounded like—

"Why did you stop?"

"Couldn't focus."

Erickson let go, stepping away. Blaine was panting, sweating, heavy-lidded and leaning so heavily against Andrew he looked lifeless. Kurt had seen the look that was on Andrew's face before—had seen it every day on one boy whenever he went to school; in a cafeteria; in a locker room. He wanted to throw up. This was violation, this was—He wanted Blaine to move, to get away from these people, to not just lie there and take it like he deserved it or—

"That felt good, didn't it?" Erickson murmured to Blaine.

Kurt was going to strangle him.

Blaine drew in a ragged breath like a drowning man, and his face crumpled. Kurt huffed out a staggered breath as he caught sight of Blaine's eyes: a brilliant shade of amber, bleeding into the whites of his eyes.

"Please, don't," Blaine said, finally. "Please. Stop. Please, don't."

Kurt needed to get to him, to hold him, to do something.

"Blaine," he said, but Blaine didn't turn to look at him. All of his attention was focused on Erickson.

"And here I thought you were never going to beg us for anything," Andrew said quietly. "Isn't that what you told me, Blaine?"

Blaine wasn't looking at anyone but Erickson, pleading with his eyes and crying. Tears spilled out of Kurt's eyes and ran hot down his cheeks as he watched. He'd only ever seen Blaine like this once and—

And Kurt suddenly understood.

A room full of people. A room full of people who already overwhelmed him, who didn't know a thing about what was going on—and nobody tried to tell them, Kurt never told them, and they had feelings about that, feelings about a person they've known for weeks getting hurt in front of their eyes, being stabbed, dehumanized, and they didn't understand, and they didn't know how to help, and they were scared. And then there was the school, the hundreds of students and teachers in class, and the Dalton boys, all Magicians and skilled in working with Blaine. And Erickson, and Andrew—

And Kurt.

…And there was Kurt.

Blaine had told Kurt that he felt him on a whole other level than anyone else, and Kurt believed him. And Kurt was in the room, too, Kurt was in the building, feeling things, too, complicated, terrifying things and—

"Just stay calm. If anything happens, just promise me you'll stay calm."

That was why they were doing this here. Hurting him, here, in the choir room (it's just that I'd been told you'd be in this room, and when you weren't here, I got a little impatient) And Kurt and Blaine had set this all up for them, unintentionally building the scaffolding for their own hanging. What were they trying to do to him? Why did they need Blaine back so badly? What had Andrew meant by 'setting Blaine free'?

Erickson calmly grabbed Blaine's chin and lifted, tilting his head so Blaine was looking into his eyes.

"Hello there," he said, nonchalant. "It's so nice to finally see you again."

"Please," Blaine rasped. "Please."

"I think this is the best we'll get out of you today, yes?" Erickson let go of Blaine and turned to Andrew. "He's ready. Erase this mess."

"NO!" It was a torn-up scream, watered down by the thunderstorm Blaine had been keeping inside of him all this time, and echoing strangely with a power that had never before been threaded through his voice. He suddenly jerked away, violent and fast and out of control—but Andrew was faster, whispering something into his ear that glued his feet to the ground, wrapping his arms around him in some kind of eerie embrace. Blaine recoiled, curling in on himself, and Kurt remembered I was drawn to him and he remembered he wanted to try things, and he felt like this whole room was a puzzle and he was finally seeing all the pieces, understanding where they fit, what picture they were spelling out, and his heart dropped out of his stomach. "NO, NOT HIM! PLEASE! HE'LL DIE, YOU CAN'T, NOT HIM, NOT HIM, PLEASE! NO!"

Kurt's tears wracked his body, and he shook against the boy holding him. Blaine was wild, vicious as he fought Andrew's grip, something primal and terrified, sobbing animalistic screams in the middle of the room, and the New Directions looked on in varying degrees of shock and fear and horror. Kurt couldn't watch this.

"DON'T!"

"Blaine, just focus on me!" Kurt cried out. "Focus on me!"

"KURT!"

"You can feel me, I'm right here, just—!"

A hand clamped rough and angry over his mouth and Kurt bared his teeth to bite the damn thing off when he noticed that the boy by the door wasn't by the door anymore—he was by Blaine—and he was grabbing Blaine's hand and Blaine kept struggling, screaming in Andrew's grip as Andrew took the other hand and squeezed, latching his mouth onto Blaine's like a man dying of thirst and—