A/N: Trigger warning for descriptions of violence, including the attempted use of a weapon. The violence is not graphic and there is no permanent damage. Do not read this chapter if you believe that you will in any way be triggered. If you have been the victim of violence, please, please seek help. There are resources out there that can help you.

I

When they meet for the first time at the House-Party Train-Wreck Extravaganza, Blaine is all sweet, wide-eyed courtesy, because Puck is one of Kurt's Glee club friends. Their paths don't cross much at that party, however. For one thing, they're both drunk off their asses. For another, they both have their own matters to attend to. Puck had his hands full with that orange fireball of a Lauren Zizes, and Blaine had his hands full with that blazing spitfire of a Rachel Berry. Later, as Blaine and Kurt burn hot, then cold, Blaine and Puck's friendship starts out tenuously, at best.

But right after they get together, Blaine wants to love all of Kurt's friends, including Puck. Blaine glosses over the army-green khaki jacket and muscle shirts and trimmed mohawk and cockiness and, you know what? It's all good. For all his attitude and disrespect to adults, Puck is, refreshingly, not a homophobe - or at least, he gets there eventually. He wasn't always this way. Puck is he of the pee-balloons, the icy red slushies, the port-a-potty rumbles. That was a dark, dank, hole-making void in Kurt's life before he came alive at the bottom of an iron-wrought staircase at Dalton.

Kurt understands loneliness. This is why he thinks he understands Puck, and that is what he tells Blaine, legs entwined, fingers swirling circles idly on Blaine's heart-full chest. Blaine's so in love it hurts, so he only vaguely picks it up later; Puck probably has good reason to be the way he is. But because his head floats in the clouds that year, Blaine doesn't think much more of Puck, other than he's a good singer, and he's sort of a buddy; he's sort of cool. So Blaine doesn't remember.

Puck never tells anyone, not even Finn or Mike or Sam, that he's met Blaine. He doesn't tell Blaine that he remembers him. What happened would make Kurt upset, and Kurt deserves a nice guy. Much more importantly, Blaine is the guy that'll finally get Kurt some hot, sweaty, explicit man-on-man action. (The thought of Blaine and Kurt, naked, together, teases him in his oh-so-excitable nether regions - a fantasy which only his socks and his lube know about.) So, despite what happened, Puck doesn't hold any grudges. Kurt understands loneliness, but Puck understands futility. Puck understands rage.

II

A year before, Blaine is a simmering acid vat waiting to corrode something, anything. He wants the world to know just how pissed off he is, and a mousy therapist in a posh bookcase-lined office isn't enough of a megaphone to tell Thurston High School to burn itself to the ground. He's going to enjoy dancing in the flames when that happens. Maybe he'll set it himself. Maybe he'll set fire to himself. But on the outside, he's deadened, because it's too dangerous to show what kind of fury is locked inside his ribcage and banging to get out.

She adjusts her glasses and buttons down the front of her boring brown cardigan. She says over and over, carefully, patiently, "Tell me how you feel."

Blaine gestures with his cast. He feels nothing, he says. He glowers, his hazel eyes burning fiercely in a battered face. Because you have to say something, he manages to keep her hanging for weeks, doling out scraps just so that the stupid therapist can tell herself she's helping this poor, lonely boy.

He learns to put a smooth gloss over his face, blank and bland, and a disposable smile to go with it. Inside, the acid slowly eats away, bubbles of sarcasm bursting at the surface of everything he says.

The therapist shakes her head. He means to wound whomever he talks to. After circling him and finding no opening, she calls his parents and delivers an ultimatum.

"We've bought you a boxing gym membership," his mother says, counting off the pearl beads on her necklace. Her sweet face is concerned and pure. It plucks at Blaine's heart strings. He knows, tucked away underneath his smothering layers of bound-up, cracking emotion, that his parents love him.

His father, still dressed in his smart travelling business suit, puts a hand on Blaine's bent shoulders. "I think it'll do you good. Just go a couple of times. Work it out." He looks like Cooper, but more distinguished and more arrogant at the same time. And even though his dad could be closer to him, Blaine knows that he, too, is doing his best to deal. Just like his mom.

Blaine knows, but understanding is still very far away and anger is right here. The world can go to fucking hell. But Blaine also doesn't have anything else to do other than makeup work, which is appallingly easy, so he nods, shortly.

"If this doesn't work, we'll have to find you another therapist. Maybe even a treatment center," his dad worries, a thread of frustration weaving through his brow.

Blaine snaps out of his sullen mood. "Don't worry, it'll work," he snarks, and his parents flinch. They learned, right after the incident, not to ask how he's been doing lately. Blaine also knows the last thing he needs to do is to talk about feelings and shit. Talking got him into this mess, and it certainly won't get him out.

III

The boxing gym smells like feet. His trainer is gentle on him the first time. He shows him the proper way to stand, elbows in, fists up to protect the face, one foot back, one foot in front. It is like dance, except that you hit people. He mentally puts the face of one of the boys on the bag, one jab, one right cross, one left hook, and he switches it up. The bag has a little give to it, but it's stiffened underneath - like his mattress, or muscle under skin - and the fraying thread and stuffing poking out of the seams is like blood seeping out, or pain. It feels good on his gloved hands, but in the end, there's little satisfaction in boxing a helpless bag.

It does help for a little while, and he keeps on coming back. He's still fucking pissed, but at least he can go longer between training sessions without wanting to punch real people in the face. Other than that? He's anesthetized.

"Hey, kid. Kid, c'mere."

Blaine's never seen him before, but he's got this devil-may-care, live-for-today attitude now and so he doesn't care about what kind of creepy strangers approach him in a boxing gym. He's older, dressed in dirty, sweaty gray sweats, and a nose that hasn't quite healed in place.

"What the fuck do you want?"

"Fuckin' relax, kid. Nah, you'll do. Ten o'clock, Saturday night. Bring a ringer, maybe" - he glances pointedly at Blaine's small form - "or get someone to drive you home." He passes over a card with cartoony skulls and gloves printed on it: Fight Club. It's near the boxing gym. He raises a finger to his lips, shhhh.

Blaine spits, "Your other fighter's going to need someone to drive him home."

The kid grins and slinks off, back into the shadows. Blaine just might be a keeper. This ought to provide entertainment value for a good long time - that is, if he survives the first round.

IV

Two full fights in, and Blaine's doing quite well.

The first kid actually tries, and circles Blaine, hopping about with tentative jabs to the midsection. But he's left himself open. Blaine's hard uppercut makes the kid's head snap up. He'd actually lifted off, suspended in air like a marionette, and hopped back onto the balls of his feet, then onto the concrete. Blaine makes a tigerish leap towards him, but the kid rolls over and runs off, clutching at his face. Blaine lets go of his bottom lip and licks it, relishing the blood, the sweat, the dirt. It's fucking delicious. The second kid lasts a little longer, maybe three minutes, and he does get a few good swings in. The adrenaline numbs him from the pain. The radiating burns and blossoming bruises only serve to make him feel so, so good.

Blaine lands a devastating right hook, then a jab to the nose. There's a crunch. The kid's nose breaks and blood runs in a slow trickle, like lava, down to his mouth. He childishly yells out in pain and sits down abruptly on the ground and looks up with frightened black eyes. Blaine's conscience twinges just a little, but there's also too little pity left to keep caring. He spits out bloody snot and it lands, neatly, next to the kid's gloves. The spectators pass around wads of crumpled-up cash. Blaine loves this. The yield of cartilage against his gloves is so much sweeter than a fucking stupid bag, and so is the hot rush of adrenaline that suffuses his blood with joy. He grimaces through the tumbled mass of fallen sweaty curls on his forehead. He feels feral. He feels like a beast.

But he's put more into these first two fights than he thought. The next kid's quite a bit taller, and he's muscular too, longer, leaner, tanned. He's got enough skill to duck and enough training to realize that Blaine's getting tired. When Blaine jumps back now, he stumbles, and he can't hold up his elbow high enough so his face is now unprotected. The kid sees his chance. His punch lands Blaine right in the center of his gut, which he didn't tighten, and because he's already hurt and surprised, he falls. Now, it's his limbs that lie like lead, and the kid's grin is white in a tanned, lean face as he jeers, looking over Blaine's helplessness. Blaine is furious. Mostly at himself.

The bell rings. It's the other kid's turn to relish his victory, and Blaine's turn to taste failure, and it sears like white-hot liquid metal pooling in his gut and throat. Something unhinges.

V

After everyone's left, Blaine waits patiently in the shadow of a nearby brick building. He waits for his prey until the kid's just ahead of him, in the full yellow beam of a street light, before leaping. It's a stretch to reach his chin, but he makes it, and the blade just scrapes the surface of his skin, pushing the kid's chin upward so he can't see who's behind him.

"Whoa," the kid says, putting his hands up in a gesture of surrender, "The fight's over."

"Not until I say it is," Blaine growls.

"I'm gonna turn around. Okay?"

Blaine presses the blade in closer. He doesn't really want to slide the point of the knife in - does he? He feels the fear running through the kid's veins. Blaine feels powerful and in control and just under it? He's going to explode any second amidst the crisis he's having: do I? Or don't I?

The anticipation of it is just as much pleasure as the cut is going to be. It just feels too good, in the end, and Blaine decides to delay the climax just a bit longer. "Okay. Turn around."

He lowers the stolen blade. The kid steps forward, turns around, and looks Blaine up and down. There's a tiny red trickle of blood wending its way down his throat. Instead of standing squarely in front of him to look down into his angry, glassy eyes, he puts his back to the dirty brick wall and crosses his arms.

"Man, you're short, but you're not a bad fighter. One day you'll be as good as me."

There's a hint of respect there, but it isn't enough. "You want trouble?" Blaine makes sure to flash the blade.

"You can't even handle that knife." He snorts.

Blaine drops it. The blade lands, handle down, and bounces off and away to rest against the edge of the alleyway. Because he can't think of anything else to do, he stuffs his hands in his empty pockets and goes to lean against the wall next to the kid.

"What's your name?" Blaine tilts his aching head to the sky and closes his eyes.

"I go by Goliath here. I'm Jewish."

"You can call me David."

Goliath shrugs and cracks his knuckles. "I don't care about your real name. You got problems."

"So?"

"That's why you're there, huh?"

"Yeah. I didn't come there to talk."

"I come for the cash, and it's fun."

"That's why I'm there, too. That, and my problems."

"You're different than the others. You enjoy it too much."

"So? Why do you care?"

"I don't care. But it's personal for you. That's dangerous shit, for me and for everyone else you'll fight."

Blaine smirks. "Too bad I'm too tired right now to kick your ass."

"Not like I couldn't handle you, but other fighters won't. I'm gonna have to take this one for the team."

Goliath tosses his jacket to the ground and whips around to stand in the boxing stance in the middle of the alleyway. He shifts his weight between his feet. No tape, no gloves. "Let's rumble, David."

Blaine shrugs. "I told you I'm too tired."

"Scared, chickenshit?"

"I'm not scared."

"Prove it."

Goliath throws out the challenge with just enough scorn to get Blaine's blood to a boil.

And Blaine forgets everything he's been taught about stances and disciplined punches, because he doesn't see Goliath anymore. The flames ripple through his veins and he sees a red flag and he hurtles towards Goliath with a yell that doesn't seem human. Crescendo.

And with that, Goliath fades away. Crescendo. He lands almost on top of him and Goliath topples down, bringing Blaine with him. Instead of Goliath, he sees the shadows of hoodies and hears the echoes of fag in the air all around him. Goliath tries to shield his head with his forearms, but he's tired, too. Blaine gets a hold of him and pins him down between his knees and keeps screaming. Thick red blood runs down around Goliath's face and purple-black bruises bloom around his eyes. Blaine's heart sings for victory, crescendo, and his heartbeat is loud, thump thump thump thump, in his ears, crescendo, crescendo.

He keeps hitting, and then he thinks of something worse, something better. He presses his thumbs into Goliath's trachea and starts to squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. He imagines their faces, all blended together, in Goliath's wide, terrified brown eyes. It feels good. This is going to feel so good - and the dam's going to burst, and it already feels so good -

Crescendo.

"Fuck," Goliath says weakly, with a cough, but his voice is getting weaker and weaker as he slips further away from consciousness - "Fuck - stop it - stop it - you psycho. Stop."

Shit.

Clarity floods his senses. It gets cold.

Thump thump thump thump.

Shit.

His heartbeat slows.

Diminuendo.

Shit.

The heat departs as swiftly as it came. For some reason, right there, Blaine sees his mother's face. And that's enough reason for him to stop.

VI

Blaine rolls off of Goliath and falls to the ground next to him. Goliath puts his own hands up to his neck and wheezes, gulping in huge drafts of air.

He puts his own aching hands up to cover his face in shame and for the first time since the incident, he cries. He cries in loud, huge, body-wracking sobs and wails, and Blaine doesn't care who hears, much less this kid that he almost - he almost -

Goliath quietens. And when he speaks, it's with a struggle.

"You okay, David?"

Blaine can barely hear, but his suddenly very active conscience kicks him in the gut, and it hurts worse than during the fight.

"Oh shit. Shit, I'm so sorry, I don't know what I was thinking, oh shit, oh shit - " and he tries to scramble over to see how Goliath is doing, but it hurts everywhere, it hurts now, it hurts. He flops back down, and that hurts, too. His mother, and his father, and he just tried to beat the shit out of a stranger who's done nothing to him really, and -

"Nah. Don't come over here. Don't get up. I'm fine, I'm fine, really. I'll - I'll - "

Goliath manages, somehow, to stand, towering over Blaine. It's a slow, agonizing process, because Blaine sees his own guilt reflected in Goliath's suddenly very saddened face. He extends a hand to Blaine, who's still lying on the ground, stricken with the understanding of what he's done.

"Get up. I'll get my buddy to come drive you home. No tricks, I promise."

Their eyes lock, but there's no anger in Goliath's, and there is no longer any anger in Blaine's, either. Somehow, Goliath knows what Blaine knows. They say nothing on the drive, because nothing needs to be said anymore, save for when they reach the front driveway of Blaine's house.

Goliath looks back and forth between the house and Blaine. It's two in the morning. The beautifully appointed two-story house, in a nice, nice area of town, is still and stately in the darkness. The flower garden is perfect and pretty. There is a porch light on, though.

"Nice place."

"Yeah."

"You gonna be okay?"

"Yeah. Look. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you, I promise." Words spill out because they can't express the depth of how sorry he is.

"You need to talk to someone."

"Yeah, I do."

"I don't ever want to see you in Fight Club again."

"Because you'll beat the shit out of me? I deserve it."

"No, I won't, and it's not that. I don't hold grudges. Now, get out. And stay out."

They shove Blaine out of the car and drive off. They don't look back. As the sputtering old Ford slowly turns the corner, he doesn't look back, either. He makes it up to his bed. He sleeps.

He doesn't mention Goliath or Fight Club to his therapist, because now there's so much else to talk about, words of anger and fear and feeling, and it does hurt, everything that he feels, but it brings relief. The flood of catharsis washes away specific memories, and so he doesn't remember who helped bring it all back to him. He does start a Fight Club at Dalton, because Blaine remembers the endorphin release.

But Puck remembers Blaine, and he keeps his distance in the beginning of their friendship. All Blaine really retains is the knowledge that it is possible to get back up, even though you sometimes need a little push. He never does remember what he almost became, and that's a relief, too.