In the weeks that followed Blaine tried to keep his sort-of secret life in check, which meant staying on campus, which meant hearing a very disappointed Kurt sigh on the phone late one winter night.

"But you already turned me down for my old high school's football game," Kurt said. "You're going to make me go to Rachel's party alone? You realize how many couples I'll have to watch make out all night?" Kurt's disappointment emanated through the phone.

"So don't go," said Blaine. "Stay here. With me." It was a bit risky to invite Kurt to campus on a Saturday evening, but if they stayed in his room or even wandered the common areas, Blaine felt he could easily explain away the lack of students—or noise. Okay, he thought, so maybe he'd have to do some extra programming . . .

But Kurt seemed to ignore the suggestion for the moment. "I was really hoping to introduce you—that means show you off by the way—to more of my friends, that's all. Besides, it feels like we never go places anymore. Not that we've really been anywhere other than the Lima Bean or Breadstix. Or," Kurt said, clearing his throat, "The Gap."

Blaine felt a slight twist in his gut at the reference. "I'm sorry," he said. "I really am—I would love to be able to go. I just can't see how," he said. He could go of course, couldn't he? Edwards would surely call him a cab (Well, he might raise a bit of an objection in this case). What was he afraid of exactly?

Maybe he was nervous about meeting too many people, especially after botching the thing with Jeremiah so spectacularly, or being blindsided at the way he'd missed Kurt's experience of that debacle. He would've met Kurt's dad at that football game—a man he was kind of curious about after hearing Kurt describe him so often. And here would be a roomful of real people to interact with, all of whom respected Kurt. Why not just go? In the end he sighed, having lost his nerve, and merely asked Kurt to reconsider his invitation to hang out at Dalton.

"I'm pretty sure my dad wouldn't let me drive to and from campus late at night," Kurt replied. "And honestly? I hardly spend time with my old friends now. Even though I totally predict Santana will see my bitchface at least once during the night, I was kind of looking forward to catching up with all of them."

"Go," said Blaine. "Then you can tell me all about it," he added, trying to sound encouraging.

"Oh, don't worry, Blaine. There will always be a lot to tell with that group," Kurt replied, before both boys laughed and said their goodnights.

The day of the party found Blaine heading to the music room alone after dinner. Most of the students were already holed up in their dorms, but a few lingered as another day drew to a close. Blaine was smiling down at his phone as he walked. Kurt had just texted a photo of his ensemble, which included a pair of black pants decorated with a row of safety pins and a red fitted shirt with black leather tie (and some kind of harness, Blaine thought, raising his eyebrows). Even though he loved seeing the outfit, Blaine felt a pang of guilt that he wasn't there to see it in person.

Suddenly, familiar voices caught his attention as he made his way down the corridor. He could tell whose they were—the crisp phrasing of Wes's, the vampish tone of Sebastian's. "Huh," Blaine said quietly, coming to a halt. The voices emanated from a nearby room. He stood still and listened as the voices grew louder—clearly, Sebastian and Wes were arguing about something.

"I simply can't comprehend why you are so fixated on Blaine," he heard Wes say.

"Like you other guys aren't," replied Sebastian. "You hang on his every word. But when you talk to the others individually, do you know what happens? They—"

"You what?" Wes asked sharply. There was a pause before Wes added, "What exactly are you up to, Sebastian?" He sounded curious, but also confused, Blaine thought. He wondered to what extent Wes was concerned. For all of Sebastian's odd behavior, he still felt the boy was more or less harmless. But if Wes was asking questions . . . Blaine didn't know what that meant.

"I just want to win—what's wrong with that? So do you. Maybe I want to more than you, maybe more than any of you. I mean, this is all we have to focus on. Just this one thing. There's nothing else! Doesn't that bother you? Aren't you tired of being so . . . boxed in?"

"What are you even talking about, Sebastian?" asked Wes, clearly agitated now. "Are you sure you're . . ." he lowered his voice. "Functioning properly?"

Sebastian laughed. "I think it's you who should be answering that question. I feel just fine. All of me feels fine. You know who's not fine? Lover Boy. Or Mama's Boy. Take your pick—he's pining for at least two people these days. Maybe more."

"You don't ever get to speak about Blaine in—"

"This conversation's boring me now. Thanks, though, Wes—you're a great pal," Sebastian sneered.

Blaine's heart was racing as he heard what were probably Sebastian's footsteps enter the corridor, so he ducked quickly into another room. As Blaine peered out he could see Sebastian in the hallway, looking back toward where Wes was likely standing. "Time for 'bed' now, Wes," he air-quoted. "Sleep tight." And then he turned on his heel and walked resolutely in the opposite direction, back toward the dormitories. Blaine saw Wes head the same way soon after, looking deeply perplexed.

He watched as the boys kept on, and lingered there as the rest of the student body disappeared for the night. Then he continued on his original path toward the music room. If his mind had been occupied earlier with thoughts of Kurt being at the party without him, it was now cluttered with countless other concerns—like what Sebastian knew, if anything, about his mother. Why would he bring her up at all? Why would he care? He sat at the piano, plunking at the keys distractedly before eventually getting lost in the music. And then, like always, he relaxed—mostly because it was easy to push all his questions aside as his fingers danced across black and white keys.

A set of headlines through the large picture windows alerted Blaine to the fact that he'd been playing for well over an hour. It was now dark outside. Guessing who it was, Blaine was thankful he hadn't gone to the party. Because what would his father have done, if he'd realized Blaine wasn't even home? Blaine supposed he was thankful Kurt had the party to go to after all, because if he'd been here when his father arrived . . .

Disaster, Blaine thought, even as he acknowledged that at some point, he might have to—well, he would certainly have to—explain himself. No, Blaine didn't want to think about that yet, as much as he wanted to be honest with everyone. It wasn't like him to lie. He simply knew too well how circumstance could push someone to make certain choices. He shook his head at the realization that he'd in effect constructed a cage for himself with his lies. A cage within a cage. And yet there was a tiny part of him that was almost proud. Meeting Kurt and befriending him, the competition . . . he was fighting, in his own way. Not running. It wasn't perfect, he knew, but it was something.

For now he decided he just needed to get some answers. Wrapped up in his conflicting thoughts, Blaine began to play again as he waited for the sound of his father's approaching footsteps, and kept going even as the elder Anderson entered the room and laid his jacket and laptop case across the piano's glossy lid.

"Enjoying the evening?" his father asked, smiling.

Blaine stopped playing, rested his fingers on top of the keys and sighed. "I haven't even seen you since Christmas." (And hadn't that been a somber affair, a holiday without Blaine and Cooper's mother. Throughout it Blaine had thought, sadly, the first of many.)

His father's smile faded. "I'm sorry, Blaine. I meant to visit last month," he said lamely, running his hand through his hair. His father seemed tired, and Blaine had to admit he looked rather scruffy: his hair was longer than usual, and he wasn't clean-shaven, either. "I'm getting more questions about the project, and I keep trying to . . ." he trailed off.

Blaine looked down at his hands. "It's okay, I get it," he said as if on auto-pilot, but then stopped. "Actually," he said, plucking up the courage, "I don't get it. Where have you been? Because there are some things going on around here I don't understand, and Cooper obviously can't help me, and," he added thickly, feeling suddenly emotional, "I'm pretty sure Mom is gone for good."

His father stepped forward quickly and lay a hand on Blaine's shoulder. "Woah. Woah," he said. "Blaine. Buddy? What's going on?" He tugged at Blaine's arm and guided him to the couch, where they both sat. "Did something happen to you, Blaine? Something to make you feel unsafe here? Edwards hasn't mentioned anything—he's always been my eyes and ears. You know that, right?"

Every instinct shouted at Blaine to tell his father already—about everything, just to get it over with."It's Sebastian," he said, tentatively. "One of the students—not a Warbler. I mean, he's a Warbler now but wasn't before. He—"

"Wait a minute," his father interrupted. "What do you mean he's a Warbler? How?" His father looked for a moment as if he were trying to recall Sebastian's face. Then he retrieved his laptop and in a matter of minutes pulled an image of the boy. He looked back at Blaine. "Tell me," he said simply.

"Well, he found me one night and offered to help by joining the team." Blaine shifted in his seat to face his father. "But now, I dunno, Wes is looking at him strangely, and he brought Mom up . . ."

"He brought your mother up? Why?"

"Um," Blaine murmured, trying to avoid mentioning Kurt, "I overheard him saying something rude to Wes about my missing her."

"You mean he was actually insulting you?"

"Sort of," Blaine shrugged. "Technically, I wasn't there, though, so . . ."

His father was quiet for a moment while he clicked his laptop shut. "And was he right? About missing your mother?"

Blaine looked away and replied quietly, "Of course. We don't even know what happened. We don't talk about it. We don't know where she is. Sometimes I think you don't even care. You never talk about her anymore."

"There are always reasons, Blaine, for the things people do," his father said, practically whispering, as if to comfort himself as much as his son.

"No there aren't! You mean like the guys who beat me within an inch of my life? Who basically landed me here? What were their reasons?"

"They had reasons, Blaine," he answered. "Horrible reasons—but that doesn't mean they didn't have them." His father looked distracted for a moment before asking, "What did Sebastian say he wanted to help you with, again?"

"He . . . just wanted something more purposeful to do," Blaine responded. But he could tell that his answer didn't quite satisfy his father, who was already busy with his notebook and pen, putting words and code to the page in effort to unlock the inner workings of his machines rather than that of his own heart.

"Guys. Guys. I was merely suggesting that instead of jackets with blue ties and red piping, we wear jackets with red ties and blue piping for the competition." Blaine's comment caused such an outcry in the Warbler's meeting the following week that nobody noticed Kurt stroll in late and take his seat on the couch. Blaine looked to his friend for help, but Kurt could only shrug innocently in confusion over the chaos.

The Warblers seemed to be arguing about everything today. They even fought about whether Blaine's new arrangement of "Raise Your Glass," which they planned to use at regionals, was better than the original.

"But it's not in his natural key!" shouted David.

Trent jumped up from his seat and pointed at the other Warbler. "How dare you!"

"Why don't we just play it on kazoos?" was David's smug reply.

Then Trent threw up his arms in frustration, as the rest of the group seemed to break down into factions seemingly centered on whether or not the number Blaine had been working so hard to arrange was good or exceptionally good.

Blaine was completely bewildered—and then he noticed a very quiet Sebastian leaning up against a credenza near the back of the room, looking quite pleased with himself.

"Enough!" yelled Blaine, taking the floor. "I'm tired of this. Regionals is coming, guys: a chance to shine. We shouldn't be feuding like this!"

Then Kurt raised his hand. "If I may?" he offered. "I know I'm a still an outsider here, and that you all are basically Blaine and the Pips—"

"What?" asked Blaine, incredulously.

"Sorry, Blaine. But if you really want to win regionals . . ."

And then the group erupted even more into a cacophony of voices. No one even heard Wes bang the gavel to end the meeting. Whether the meeting was over or not didn't even matter to Blaine at that point. He got up and left regardless, with Kurt trailing behind him.

"What just happened in there?" asked Blaine, dumbfounded, turning to Kurt in the hallway.

Kurt looked at Blaine sympathetically and shrugged. "Look, Blaine. Your solos are breathtaking. Also numerous. For what it's worth," he added, tentatively reaching out and patting Blaine on the shoulder, "this is how all the New Directions meetings are. I kind of feel at home today," he added, smiling, before walking off to his next class. Blaine simply stared after him, completely baffled, until he heard Kurt's voice float from down the hall: "Everything will be fine," it said. Blaine couldn't help but smile just a little at that, even if the Warbler's increasingly erratic behavior was becoming a real cause for concern.

Blaine soon learned that strange behavior wasn't relegated to Warbler meetings. He'd stopped by the headmaster's office one morning to work out some of the logistical arrangements involved in getting the group to regionals. As he walked the hallway leading to Edward's door, he saw Edwards himself leading two Warblers out of the office. "I don't know what has gotten into you two," he was saying, "but I recommend you stop by the laboratory and let Mr. Anderson take a look—and if that resolves nothing I'll call in the senior Anderson." The boys nodded then headed in the opposite direction from Blaine.

"Busy morning?" asked Blaine, as he approached.

"Busiest morning, maybe," Edwards replied, a look of concern on his face. "I think our conversation about the competition will have to wait, Sir," he said, gesturing for Blaine to enter.

When he walked into the room, he halted. Seated along the wall, presumably waiting to see Headmaster Edwards, were at least five other Warblers, including Thad. "What's going on here?" Blaine asked.

"I don't understand it." The headmaster looked down the hallway. "Those two boys I just let go were wandering in the courtyard, skipping class," he said, raising his eyebrows at Blaine. "The rest of these students have all been sent down here for similar reasons."

"But why all of a sudden?" asked Blaine. "Plus, why wouldn't they follow their programming?" He felt tense already, just thinking about what could come next if these small transgressions grew into something larger—or more devious. Suddenly he felt the safety net he and his father built had a gaping hole in it.

"Whatever it is," said Edwards, "I think we're just about at Code Red, as far as your father is concerned. There's something at work here, and it may be beyond your capabilities to repair it. I'm sorry, Blaine." Then he turned toward Blaine, and after scrutinizing the boy's features, set a hand awkwardly on his shoulder. "Well, we might be able to find a way to inform him about the malfunctioning students but still get the team to regionals."

Blaine looked up to meet his eye. "Okay," he nodded, but already it felt like Kurt, the Warblers—and even Dalton—were slipping from his hands.