Blaine was used to peace and quiet. His house in Columbus had been like a giant maze, and with only him and his sisters floating around in it most of the time, there was no need to talk to anyone for days. Especially if you locked yourself away like Blaine did. He had been given his own room at Dalton in which the only company he had was the small yellow bird that flew in circles round his cage. He didn't really mind having Pavarotti around; it was like having an automatic friend. Pavarotti always liked him so long as Blaine kept feeding him and didn't play his music too loud. A soft, melancholy piano melody was playing at the moment, and Pavarotti seemed to be enjoying it because he had stopped his circling for a minute and cocked his head to the side to listen carefully. Blaine looked out the window and craned his neck to look at the stars, which were oddly visible for the time of year. They comforted him, the stars, because every time he looked they were still there. They were like a distant reality that couldn't be touched by the horrors of what was going on down where he was. Blaine didn't need a heaven, but he'd like to live among the stars one day.

He examined himself in the full length mirror as he undressed, peeling off his clothes slowly. His body was covered in bruises. There was a particularly large one on his side where he'd been thrown into that wall, and another one on his arm where they'd punched him with hard fists. He knew he had some down his back, too, but he couldn't see those. His legs were covered in marks from steel-capped shoes and his jaw still ached, bringing back memories he never wanted to revisit, but couldn't help remembering every time he felt the ache. But the bruises were yellow now. That meant they were fading. If the bruises were yellow, then his memories could turn yellow too. Yellow and dusty and ancient. He could tuck them away somewhere safe like an old letter and never have to look at them again.

Dalton was going better than Blaine had expected but he awoke the next morning feeling dazed. He still had such trouble sleeping, the nightmares wouldn't go away. He took all kinds of herbal concoctions to try and tame them, but it was far easier for them to tame him than the other way round. That was one of the things Blaine hated about himself. He stood up reluctantly and saw Pavarotti collide with the bars of his golden cage and fall to the bottom with a squeak looking disgruntled. Blaine smiled at him sleepily and put his finger through the bars for the bird to nip on contentedly.

Blaine had been blessed with a singing voice; it was a simple as that. No one had ever trained, or even encouraged him, to sing. It was just a second nature to him. He remembered learning how to sing before he learned how to talk. No one had given a damn about this at his old school, of course, but now he was at Dalton he was able to show it off and be fully appreciated. The Warblers were another godsend, they meant he actually had people to talk to in the cafeteria. He was able to stop people in the hallways and say hi, he was able to have people that could loosely be described as friends. This had never ever happened before.

He'd been walking to one of their impromptu performances when it had happened, actually. The boy who had once been different and strange was dressed in a uniform. He was confident, smiling and just like everybody else. He relished that, adored it. He didn't need anything to change; he was fine just as he was. So he was walking down the spiral stairs with a distant smile on his face, buried deep in thoughts of song lyrics and subtle dance routines.

But then an angel interrupted him, and he looked up at it with widened eyes.