Santana was woken up - again - by her phone going off on her nightstand. She groaned and flopped over to grab it lazily, the sheets her body hadn't warmed yet sharply cold against her, even through her pajamas. Her hand slapped against it and the chilled material of it was slick in her palm - she curled her fingers around it and answered it, using her free hand to comb her hair out of her face with her fingers. Holding it to her ear, she said, "Hello?"

"Santana?"

"Britt," she said in return, more awake automatically, stopping with her hair and rubbing her face to stretch it into alertness. "What's up?"

"I just wanted to ask you to tell your dad happy Father's Day for me."

"That's sweet, Britt," Santana told her, smiling despite herself at the fact that even though she was halfway across the country she remembered the tradition she'd upheld since they'd become friends. "Of course I will. I'm sure he's looking forward to it?"

"And I wanted to ask you a question, too," Brittany said, and Santana paused, listening to exactly how quiet she was. "When you dropped out of college, did... did you do it because of the caseload, or something else?"

"College and I simply weren't meant to be, Britt," Santana tried to explain. "The work wasn't too hard, and the people weren't too despicable, I just... I wanted to be closer to you, and -"

"So you did it for me?"

It wasn't bold or brave of Brittany to ask, but Brittany knew her, and knew that if she asked early in the morning, and after something that made Santana smile, and if she asked Santana, she'd get a straight answer. Academically, Brittany lacked, but not for lack of intelligence; hers was coded in a way schools didn't understand and Santana had learned to, and her knowledge of people was what she thrived under. "In a way, yes," Santana replied, swallowing. "But it's alright, I -"

"Santana, you said you and college weren't meant to be," Brittany interrupted her, and that was when Santana knew something was up. She'd suspected, but Brittany didn't interrupt her. She just didn't. And if she did, something was wrong.

"Britt..." she trailed off, letting her anxiety over the situation flow through the filter she used when speaking.

"Are we?"

Santana knew what she was asking, but she closed her eyes and took a breath anyway before asking, "Are we what?"

"Are we meant to be? Together?" Brittany swallowed, and Santana could picture, could picture her perfectly, how her hair was unbrushed and up in a sloppy bun, how she was wearing a tight t-shirt and oversized, floppy pants, how she was sitting on her heels and bending forward, looking at something. The picture in her head was so startlingly real that Santana was almost certain that it was reality.

"You know I love you," Santana finally responded, her voice cracking despite how hard she tried to keep it from doing so. "You know I always will. And you know I think we are. So why are you asking?"

"I'm - I'm - Tana, I'm lonely, I'm really lonely," Brittany confessed in a hushes whisper. "I miss you, and I miss my unicorn, and I miss the New Directions, and I miss Mr. Schue, and I miss how I could wake up and know that we could defeat the world with what they threw at us. And I'm lonely and I love you and I miss you."

Her voice trembled in the way only Brittany's could, and Santana heard her crying without her actually sniffling. Brittany had always been good at crying silently until someone noticed, and then she'd break. If Santana let on that she knew she was crying, Brittany would become inconsolable, and no matter how much it broke her heart, she wouldn't let Brittany slip that low. "I know, honey, I know," Santana murmured. "Believe me, I know. But you're going to go back to sleep, and you're going to wake up, and you're going to realize that you're only ever going to be lonely if I'm dead, and I will never die on you."

"You know you can't promise that," Brittany hiccuped.

Santana refused to let herself choke on the words. "I'm a firm believer in the power of a well-meant and well-earned promise."

"Just - Tana, I really want to hug you, and - a-and -"

"Britt, listen to me," Santana pleaded, "You're going to be fine. As soon as I have the money and time, I'll come and visit you, okay? A visit is long overdue anyway. I'll bring Kurt with me, alright? And Blaine? And Rachel. Maybe Artie." Brittany sniffled and Santana held back a swear. "Hell, I'd even bring Trouty Mouth if it meant that you'd understand that it's okay to miss me as long as you don't let it control you."

"I've never been so alone, I - I feel like I'm missing half of my body, for how well I can handle things -"

"No, no, Britt, you're not alone, you're not, you're just lonely," Santana whispered, her throat constricting. "I love you. I love you so, so much, Brittany, and if I could just kiss you, if I could just somehow make it better, I - I - B-Britt, I don't know how to help, I'm lonely too." And somewhere in the back of her mind, the caged Santana only Brittany ever saw that she bottled up around anyone but her broke loose, and Santana wondered idly in what was left of her reason what had happened to the capable, strong, independent Brittany the girl she'd loved had grown - almost danced - into. "I miss you, too, and I understand, I understand."

"I'm so confused by everything," Brittany confessed hoarsely, "I don't understand anything my professors say if it's not in dance, and people look at me like I'm stupid."

"You are not stupid!" Santana's voice rose without her intending it to. "You are so, so smart. You're a genius, Britt. How many times have I told you that?"

"But you lie a lot, Santana," Brittany gulped, and the first tear Santana had been blinking back slipped out. She wiped it away by reflex, the hot, salty betrayer flicked off of her cheek by an angry nail.

"I have never lied to you about your intelligence, Brittany," Santana promised, and she hadn't. "I have never called you stupid, because you're not. I have never outright said I don't love you, because I do. I have never lied to you about things you wouldn't believe no matter how honest I am about them. When it comes to what you've never told yourself, I've always been completely honest. And you're a freaking genius, Britt. You're like Einstein. Everyone thought he was crazy, you know? And they were wrong. And they're wrong about you when they say you're stupid."

"I feel like an idiot because I can't do the homework sometimes, and this was what I'm supposed to be good at," Brittany muttered.

"You're not an idiot."

And then Santana heard the first sob from the other line. "I'm so - I'm so sorry, I never - I never thought it would be so hard, nobody said it would hurt so much to love someone I'm not supposed to."

Santana swallowed. "If it doesn't hurt, you don't love them. And if it doesn't get better, they don't love you." Brittany choked out another hot sob and Santana felt one rising up in her own chest, and she took a deep, cold breath to dispel it, with no success. "It'll get better."

"Can - can we -" Brittany sputtered, "Can we please be girlfriends? I miss you and I want to stop getting looks when I can't say more than just 'my best friend'."

Santana swallowed thickly. "Please wait, Britt," Santana whispered brokenly. "You know I'd love to be, but you... you're not thinking straight, you're sad and you're desperate for anything good right now. Sleep on it, go to class, show them all who's the boss. You know I want to, but I... I don't want to take anything from what you're experiencing when it's good just because I make it better when it's bad."

Brittany's sniffles had become smaller, less loud, all of a sudden, and Santana wondered exactly how far into her words Brittany was reading. "Okay," she replied almost silently, only the slight static of their connection conveying the word in its entirety. "I love you."

"I love you too," Santana swore to her, even if it didn't sound like a promise. "You know I will always love you the most."

Brittany's laugh was short, and bark-like, but it was a laugh, no matter how gruff. "I know."

And then the call ended, and Santana flipped over and stuffed her face into her pillow and screamed.

"Happy Father's Day, Dad," Santana wished him, when she left her room, her hair brushed, her face clean, her clothes on, a smile adorning her face. "Brittany says to tell you that."

Her father smiled at her and thanked her, and she handed him the snow globe from behind her back, and laughed when he whooped.

"Happy Father's Day, Dad," Kurt told Burt when he emerged from his room.

"Thanks, kiddo," Burt offered him a smile. "Where's Blaine?"

"He went for a walk," Kurt told him, looking at the clock, masking his anxiety. "He should be back soon. He says this is your Father's Day present." And he handed him the small, meticulously wrapped box that Blaine had pulled out of his bag when Kurt was watching him pull his clothes on so he could go outside for some fresh air. It was small and it was rather flat and it was obviously in some sort of box or it wouldn't be so even and rectangular - but Kurt hadn't focused on that until after Blaine's back, which he'd been staring at for a good five minutes, disappeared out the door and into the dark outside.

Looking out the window when Burt took the gift, he saw the clear blue sky, and though it had seemed like night would never end, it had. He wondered if Blaine had even noticed, or if he would pay attention to where his feet took him.

At the sound of the wrapping paper being ripped, Kurt looked back at the gift, and when from the scraps of its wrappings a plaque became distinguishable, Kurt asked, "What does it say?"

Burt read it and looked up at Kurt and held it up proudly so Kurt could read the words Burt Hummel: The Most Caring, Understanding, Wise And Determinedly Passionate Man On Earth.

"Coming from the Most Earnest Man Alive," Burt chuckled, "this is... this is really nice, actually. I think I'll put it on the wall."

Kurt chuckled with him.

When Rachel appeared on their doorstep with her dads at noon, Carole greeted them enthusiastically, despite how the sky was graying and the clouds were darkening. When Santana and her parents arrived an hour later, they, too, were invited in, and the sky was gray and the first spatters of rain were coming down. And when Blaine finally walked in the front door four hours after that in the middle of a downpour and soaking wet, everyone, gathered in the living room before dinner, turned to him and gaped at the plastic bag in his hand and the gel-less hair on his head (even if it was still plastered to his scalp).

"Blaine," Kurt breathed finally, and he was up faster than anyone could have blinked, sprinting the few yards to get to Blaine. The bag was out of Blaine's hands and discarded quickly to the floor, and Kurt's fingers flitted all over him, tugging at his shirt to loosen its grip on his torso, running his fingers through Blaine's hair to rid it of some of the water. Blaine was shaking and paler than Kurt liked, than anyone liked, and when Kurt barked, "Santana, get a towel, now!" she didn't argue.

"Where did you go, bud?" Burt asked, taken aback at the spectacle, but not speechless, like the rest seemed to be. "What happened?"

"I s-saw her," Blaine shivered.

"Saw who?" Rachel piped up, recovering quickly from her silence.

"M-Mom," Blaine answered, and Kurt's breath caught, and he snatched the towel offered from Santana's hand and immediately put it to his head, rubbing at his hair. Blaine didn't even seem to care.

"You saw your mom?" Santana repeated, near-panic in her dark eyes. "How? When? What happened?"

"Let him breathe," Kurt ordered breathlessly, and moved the towels form his had to his shoulders, rubbing it up and down his shaking frame, and hushing softly - not enough to make him stop speaking, but enough to let him know he could.

"I w-went to g-get the t-tie K-Kurt n-n-needed for w-work," Blaine stuttered, his teeth chattering. "The r-red one he w-was t-t-t-talking ab-bout."

"The one for my suit?" Kurt clarified, pausing in his futile drying to look at Blaine's wet eyes. When Blaine nodded jerkily, Kurt whimpered, "Blaine, I told you I didn't mean anything by it, I can use any of my other ties -"

"I g-got it," Blaine told him, almost ashamedly, and Kurt looked at the bag, and then Santana, and when he nodded she swooped down and picked it up and reached her hand inside and pulled out a deep red, silk tie, spotted and soiled by rain.

"Sweetheart," Kurt squeezed out, blinking frequently, squeezing Blaine's shoulders, "We should - we should get you into a hot shower and some warm clothes, alright? We can talk about it after."

"What's going on with his mother?" Rachel's father asked.

"Papa," Rachel warned, shaking her head.

"W-Why not t-tell?!" Blaine shook, and Kurt couldn't tell if it was from being chilled to the bone, coarsing with rage, or trembling with sadness. "She's n-n-not my m-m-m-mom anymore! There are l-legal d-d-documents that s-say so!"

"Blaine, please," Kurt insinuated.

"B, you don't have to tell anyone anything, and we're not going to," Santana told him. "You don't have to tell, alright? Not now, not ever, if you're not ready."

"She w-was at the s-store," Blaine continued, but at that point he was speaking only to Santana, his eyes wide, open, his entire face free of the shackles of silence, begging her to understand, and not just with words. "She s-saw m-me, and she s-s-stopped, and I-I... I j-just stared at h-h-h-h-her and sh-she, she asked how I w-was d-doing, and I - I c-c-couldn't answer her, and I -"

"Blaine," Kurt tried again, not even getting the sound out past the dry and heavy lump in his throat.

Blaine was definitely quivering from a mix of the three things Kurt had thought of, and Kurt's grip around him only tightened as he spoke, as he tried to make Blaine look at him. Santana was staring with rapt, horrified attention, and in the background everyone who didn't understand was pestering Rachel to let them, and she was trying to silence them. "I d-didn't s-s-say anything, and then she r-r-rem-embered th-that she w-wasn't supposed t-t-t-to kn-know me, and she s-said, "Sorry, I th-thought that y-y-you w-were someone else," and she w-walk off and I... I d-don't..."

"Blaine," Kurt mouthed one last time, and this time Blaine looked at him, and Blaine saw, and Blaine dropped his head and said, "I'm so s-sorry about the t-tie, K-Kurt."

"No, no," Kurt tried to say exactly how opposed he was to Blaine feeling like he was being blamed, but all that came out were those two of the same word, and then he repeated himself from earlier, like a parrot, "we should get you into a hot shower and some warm clothes." As an afterthought, he fought back another, thicker lump when he said, "I love it. I'll wear it. The tie."

For the briefest moment, Blaine looked proud of himself, and then his face crumpled and Kurt threw his arms around his boyfriend and fiancé and led him away, and Santana shouted behind them, "I love you, B!" and Rachel joined in with, "Me, too!" And Burt held out his hand for Blaine to take, but he was too far away, and Blaine didn't see because he was curled into Kurt, his heat-stealing body wet and soaking into Kurt's clothes, and Kurt didn't care. Not even when he heard Santana start to tell the others that they couldn't tell them what the deal was until Blaine allowed it, and how Rachel argued that Blaine said why not tell them - and Kurt shut the door behind them and helped Blaine down the stairs.

"Shh, sweetheart," Kurt murmured as warmly as he could into Blaine's matted and ruffled hair, and wished that the heat of words could be real. "It's alright."

Blaine wasn't even crying. Kurt was scared that he was too empty to cry, or trying too hard to not be empty to remember to show how much things hurt, before he shoved the thought forcefully out of his head and led Blaine to the bathroom.

The blur of taking care of Blaine was punctuated with whispered I'm sorrys and reassuring I love yous and the hot steam of the shower and the heaven of warm cloth Kurt helped Blaine into after he dabbed the water from his skin.

Blaine insisted that he'd dry his own ankles and put his socks on first. Kurt wanted to scream when he saw the thin and thick raised lines that decorated his ankle, and not because the cutting horrified him - though it did just a bit, especially since it was Blaine - but because Blaine was still so ashamed of them that he wouldn't let Kurt touch them or see them longer than necessary.

When Blaine was dressed, Kurt kissed him for as long as he could without feeling like he was going to vomit from the fear that Blaine was afraid to kiss him back, and then Kurt just held him, and let the silence and steam in the bathroom linger and settle tauntingly.

"It's been great seeing you guys," Rachel's father told Kurt warmly, shaking his hand with a firm grip and an even firmer smile. "It's great to know Rachel's got such caring friends taking care of her in New York."

Kurt smiled weakly. "I don't think Rachel's the one that needs taking care of, sir."

The girl in question stood by the car, her suitcase in her hand, her phone in the other and held to her ear, saying goodbye to Finn over the phone, though she hadn't actually seen him in person the entire time they'd been down to visit. Finn was actually maintaining fairly good grades in college - it wasn't as surprising as it was to be expected for Rachel, though the opposite could be said of his declining to meet up with them. He had finals, he explained, and he couldn't miss them, not even for Rachel. (That hadn't blown over well, but like always, she'd forgiven him.)

Next to her was Santana. Her parents had already gone home, but she was leaning against the door regardless, her eyes glued to Blaine and her arms crossed over her chest. Her hair was pulled back tightly into a french braid, a style he'd not seen her wear before and one that worked, especially with the few short, loose tendrils of hair that had escaped the hairdo curling around her face.

The boy she was watching was talking to Burt quietly by the side of the house, just barely on the cement driveway. His hair was gelled and his clothes were normal and the smile on his face was as sunny as his yellow bowtie - and it was such a stark contrast from the boy who had told him in a monotone what had happened at the store that Kurt was even more frightened than he had been at the monotone.

Carole had said her goodbyes before she left for work that morning, and Santana's parents had said goodbye when they dropped her off. Rachel's parents were doing the same thing - though nobody really got a chance to say goodbye (or to pester/question) Blaine, because Burt was somewhat hogging him to himself.

"You take care of her anyway, alright?" Hiram instructed, and beside him LeRoy nodded his agreement.

"And take care of him, too." LeRoy spoke up and twitched his head in Blaine's direction.

"Of course," Kurt said.

Kurt glanced back over at Blaine, whose head was dipped into resting on his chest, leaned back in the airplane seat as far as he was allowed to. The florescent cabin lighting made the circles under his eyes look like bruises all around them, and the changing and dimming light from outside the few open windows was enough to cast a sharp shadow over his features. He looked haunted.

"She was there before I was," Blaine nearly groaned the words out, but they were flat. "I walked into the store and after a minute I saw her come from the back. When she saw me she froze and her eyes got wide." Blaine swallowed thickly; Kurt almost believed that it was repressed emotion, but his eyes were blank, staring unseeingly up at the ceiling above them, the sixth wall that kept them down. "She looked sad, I think. Maybe not. I just stared at her. And then she asked me how I was doing. Her voice... I'm glad you didn't hear it. I don't know if it was touching or sickening." Blaine's eyes closed. Kurt wasn't reassured by the gesture, no matter how close Blaine let him get beneath the covers. "And then she blinked and said she thought I was someone else, and she walked away really quickly, and I went and bought your tie and started walking home."

Kurt's hand drew closer hesitantly, unsure if he should touch Blaine or simply stay next to him. "No hello, no goodbye, no I'm sorry?" he asked, his voice barely above a wisp of released air.

"Nothing," Blaine confirmed, his tone unchanged.

Kurt's hand lingered just above Blaine's arm in a horrible mental lingo before Kurt let it rest on his skin. He was as warm as always, maybe a little warmer because of the shower, the cold of the rain gone and the heat of memories controlling him. Blaine opened his eyes again, but didn't look at Kurt. Kurt was glad. If Blaine looked at him with the same emptiness he was using to stare at the ceiling, he'd rather be invisible. "Can I..." Kurt trailed off.

"Of course," Blaine responded, and that was the only time all night he showed any emotion and his eyes weren't glazed - and Kurt was so shocked by it he couldn't even pin what emotion Blaine said it with.

Kurt preferred Blaine sleeping curled in his arms to him sleeping alone in an airline seat, no matter how like dead he was either time.

"Home sweet home," Santana announced, opening the door to their apartment. "I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that you want some privacy so you can collapse on your own bed?"

Blaine nodded wordlessly, and Santana set her bag down by unceremoniously dumping it on the floor. She tossed the keys onto the sofa and laid a hand delicately on his shoulder. He raised his gaze to meet hers and she fought the urge to flinch away. They were his eyes, but his thoughts weren't behind them. Nothing seemed to be behind them.

"I love you, B," Santana reminded him, for the third time in three days, and a flicker of that old gold spun back into his sight.

"Love you too, San," Blaine murmured.

Santana waited a moment longer to see if there was anything else that would appear in him, but sighed when it became apparent nothing would, and dropped her hand and disappeared behind the curtain to go to her own bed.

Blaine waited, standing right there, for an immeasurable amount of time, until he heard the first soft snore pierce through the stiff silence, and then he moved.

He placed his bag soundlessly on the couch and ghosted past, walking as if he were a cloud, gliding over the broken glass and not bothering to stop when others would. He floated right to the bathroom, and that was when he stopped, and he became twice as jagged as anyone else could be. And he moved as such, he previously fluid actions dragged down by the glass he'd skimmed over before cutting into him.

And the cold of the doorknob was gone in a moment, and the door was clicking closed behind him softly, and he flipped on the light switch, his hand steady; he didn't blink when the light changed - he saw, but his eyes had stopped seeing again.

He'd gotten rid of the last one he'd used at Kurt's request and because he didn't think he'd be needing it anymore, but he knelt slowly and slid into a sitting position, and leaned forward and carefully, noiselessly, drew out the bottom left drawer. Inside, he looked at his razor. He'd forgotten to bring it to Ohio, but they'd only been there for two days - if Santana asked tomorrow, he could just saw he'd dropped it...

He pulled one of the spare blades that were interchangeable with the razor itself out of its bag. Not one of the big ones. Just big enough to do the job.

Yes, he'd dropped it. He'd gotten it out to shave before bed like normal, but he'd dropped it...

He put the blade down by his still-clad foot and used his hands to almost mindlessly roll the ends of his pants up on either side.

He'd dropped it because he was tired and it was late...

And he grabbed his shoes and jerked them off, and pushed his socks down so they pooled in the middle of his feet; His heels pressed against the frigid tile floor, and the prickles of chilled granite it set into his skin were welcome.

He was tired and it was late and he just decided not to...

His fingers nimbly picked up the blade as if it were a pencil; firm, but not too harsh - and it drew on the skin of his ankle. At the first feelings of the steel breaking the barrier that held everything in, he sucked in a breath he was suddenly scared of Santana overhearing.

Just decided not to and went back to bed...

And he laughed at his racing pulse when he realized it was racing, and he laughed at his fear when he realized it was flitting through his features, and he laughed at his blood when it dripped to the end of the thin, clear line and pooled and then spilled over and made another line tracing the contours of his foot before it fell in a red blot against the white floor.

Went back to bed and feel asleep...

He pulled the steel over his skin again, closer to the top of his foot than normal, deeper than he had in a while, and when several different drops formed along the line, he knew it was unevenly done, and he laughed at how it bothered him.

Feel asleep and had a dream...

And when he laughed, he did so silently, and let it shake him, and let it rip through him, and let it go through him in waves, because he was bleeding out all the pure, unfeeling tension that had shoved his emotions out, and the cuts let it back in, let in the pain of the cuts, let in the fear and horror and agony and delight and relief and air and peace that he'd been deprived of.

Had a dream of crimson water filling a bathtub...

And the mixing, swirling, vastly open amount of feeling he'd cut into himself plopped on the floor, and ran through his cleansed veins, and with each breath he marveled in the texture of the air, of the smoothness of the bathtub he leaned against, of the wood of the bathroom cabinet, of the lined, glinting steel.

And he was dipping his toes into it and it was warm and thick...

He reached back into the drawer and pulled out the red washcloth he'd kept since he'd first cut, and he felt every tiny movement of standing up, and avoiding stepping in his own continuous blood, and turning on the sink, and dampening the washcloth, and then when the water sept through and hit his finger the silent shakes of laughter became shakes of sobs he couldn't bear to suppress or speak.

Warm and thick, and it was a nightmare...

Blaine bent back down and began scrubbing at the floor. The blood had only been there for a minute or two, and rubbing it off wasn't anywhere near as difficult as what he'd dealt with in the past, and the white tiles were spotless, and what he ended up having to wash the most was his ankle and his socks, and his face, because there were more dried tears on it.

It was a nightmare, and he was alone...

He kept the washcloth pressed to his ankle for too long a time - long enough for him to memorize and appreciate every aspect of the bathroom and every tiny detail he'd overlooked in his memories, and for him to be confused, and miserable, and gleeful, and free, all at the same time as he was caged by steel - not even bars of it, but the blade he wiped off gingerly and put back in its bag.

He was alone in his head with his horrible, fantastical, twisted unrealities, and it was terrifying.

And then he left the bathroom and went to his bed and he didn't bother getting into pajamas before he felt the cool and lonely sheets and he felt the unused and welcoming pillow and he felt the tight, caring grip of a dreamless sleep.

Santana might have expected to wake up to a silent apartment. Maybe Blaine might have gone on a walk to clear his head; maybe he would have still been sleeping; maybe he might have just been staring blankly at his wall. Whatever she might have expected waking up to, it certainly wasn't whistling.

It took her a few moments before she'd blinked enough sleep out of her eyes to recognize the sound. It was a clear whistle, high and trilling, a tune she'd not heard of that sounded like it had been made up on the spot. The blankets around her were warm and inviting and the sky outside her window was softly lit enough to be a gentle awakening - and it was lit, lit brightly, and it matched the cheeriness the whistling exhibited.

Unless someone had either broken into their apartment or Kurt or Rachel or both had visited and were bustling around in the kitchen, Blaine was whistling.

She paused for a moment to consider it and decided it was almost more likely that they'd been broken into than it was that Blaine was whistling.

Regardless, she pulled the covers off of herself lazily and swung her legs over the side of the bed, sitting up slowly and running her fingers through her mess of hair before she stood up. She arched her back and stretched, letting a post-sleep yawn float past her lips, and then she made her way to the kitchen; and Blaine was indeed whistling.

"Morning," he greeted, and Santana looked at the sausage he was slicing and putting on a sheet. "I'm making breakfast, are sausage and egg sandwiches alright?"

Just last night he'd been completely devoid of everything he was showing her now. It was as if he'd been slowly sinking into an apathetic state he'd been caught in the night prior, and Santana hadn't known how to help him. But he was smiling at her now easily and whistling softly, waiting for an answer, and the eyes that she'd seen so listless not even twelve hours before now glistened with life.

If she hadn't been so relieved to see him cured of his languid expression, she'd have been worried about what cured him.

"Yeah, they're fine," she answered. "Are you okay?"

Blaine raised his eyebrow and turned to her, pausing with his knife above the sausage. "Yeah, I'm fine."

He didn't ask why, and when he heightened his smile and turned back to the sausage, it was clear he understood why she was asking.

"Do you..." Santana cleared her throat. "Do you need any help with that?"

"No, I've got it," Blaine assured her. "You can get ready for the day, I'll keep it warm for you."

Santana used only a moment to decide before she nodded and turned her back on her friend to head towards her room once more.

If Santana hadn't been quite so busy working extra shifts at the bar to make up for her vacation and making sure Blaine wasn't... well, in her head she always just said "dead", but she had a feeling that if she said that out loud Blaine might not react well... she might have noticed the pattern.

The day after Blaine's good spirits returned, he seemed a bit down again, and even his coffee date with Kurt didn't cheer him up enough to be really joyful.

The next day, when the group went out and they met up with Adam, returning home had brought the return of on-edge Blaine - the one who didn't actually look like he felt like he was on the edge of a cliff, but looked like it.

And the day following that he was happy again.

The pattern repeated itself with slight variations in timing for two weeks before she began to notice that it was, in fact, a pattern. By the time she came to the realization, Blaine was out the door and on his way to class.

Right:
Made breakfast for Santana
Cleaned house as a surprise
Gave Kurt a stuffed dog in return for MTD
Helped Kurt pack for moving in
Helped Santana pack for moving out
Gave Rachel 'The Book of Mormon' on DVD

Wrong:
Burned Santana's breakfast
Cleaned house without telling her
Misplaced her things while cleaning
Didn't apologize enough
Never apologize enough
Gave Kurt a stuffed dog and copied him
Couldn't think of anything better
Couldn't bring him any closer to trusting me again
Made him lie to be again by saying he loved it
He hated it
Of course he did
Got pushy and made Kurt pack some
Got in the way of packing
Left before we were done because he looked upset
Upset Kurt
Couldn't make myself ask him what was wrong
Because it's me
It's always me
Did the same thing about packing with Santana
Made her snap at me to leave her alone
Didn't realize she wanted me to in the first place
Was oblivious
You're oblivious
And stupid
Stop talking to yourself, you're doing it again
Wouldn't let 'The Book of Mormon' thing go with Rachel
Irritated everyone
I'm so sorry
I'm trying so hard
I really am, I swear, I'm trying
I can't try any harder
Stop crying
STOP TALKING TO YOURSELF
STOP CRYING
STOP IT
Cried
Cut
Laughed
Lived
Stop it, Blaine
Couldn't stop

School was something that the majority of people hated. Classwork, teachers, poorly-explained lessons, even more poorly-explained assignments... the list went on and on and got more and more detailed and varied with every student. Those who liked school tended to dislike their homes, and vice versa. There was always that kid who loved school and had a decent home life and those kids with horrible home lives who absolutely loathed school, but the rule is followed by more than half of students worldwide.

Blaine Anderson was one of the few who neither hated school nor liked it. He tolerated it for the sake of appreciation of education and he enjoyed about as many things about it as he suffered through, and his home life had obviously gone to hell, so he always just figured it was the best place for him to be; until he met Kurt, he was right.

But sitting in the last period of the day meant that freedom was close. His eyes and the eyes of everyone else flickered to the clock, the professor, and the notes in from of them several times a minute - because they only had a few left.

Not that Blaine minded his last class of the day. A class devoted to the history of all things Broadway was something he'd always known he'd excel in if such a thing existed. When he found out it did and that he could take it, he'd been ecstatic.

Not as ecstatic as he was towards the end of the day, however. And he was smiling, and happy, and good lord, it felt so damn good to be able to feel the simple joy of everyday things again.

He knew it would only last a day or two (the longest he'd ever gone before he quit was six days, but the effects had worn off after four), but in the meantime he would revel in it, and try not to focus on how the fabric of his sock kept snagging on the fresh scab on his ankle, and how he had to reach down and fix it so it wouldn't tear off and bleed in front of everyone. He wore red socks as a precaution, but he didn't want to take any chances.

Thirty seconds until the period was over, and Mrs. Von Merveldt was known for letting them go directly at the end of the period with a smile and a shout out to whomever did the best on the last assignment. Blaine refrained from tapping his feet, a habit he hadn't had to fight back in weeks.

Kurt's professor always kept them late, so if he had enough time, he could do last night's journal. He hadn't gotten a chance; Santana had made him stay up with her and point out plot holes in random TV shows she flipped to after he got out of the bathroom. He loved doing it with her. He loved her. It was just a lot easier to feel that and to say it after he'd cut. He wondered how clingy he got afterwards as opposed to be detached and spacey. He wondered if it scared anyone.

He remembered that nobody cared and his smile slipped a little, but then he looked back up at the clock.

Five - four - three - two - one -

"Santana?"

Santana jerked her head up at the familiar voice. A familiar voice, yes, but not in a setting it was typically in. Rachel Berry didn't often come down to Callbacks anymore - when she did, it was only on weekends, and she'd sing a song and leave.

"Hey Twinkle Nose," Santana greeted, shifting her weight to her other leg. "Unless you're ordering something, I'd recommend not sitting at the bar. There are some frat boys who like to show up and hog every stool here and get drunk out of their skulls."

Rachel wrinkled her nose, but sat down anyway. "Ew."

Santana shrugged. "They tip well, so it doesn't matter to me. Why are you here?"

Rachel tucked her hair behind her ear and nodded to herself as if to ascertain she wanted to speak. "It's about Blaine."

"Is he okay?" Santana asked immediately, stopping her movements and staring at the brunette.

"See, that's what I need to talk to you about," Rachel admitted, in a - for her - small voice.

"What happened?" Santana demanded, leaning forward on the counter.

"It's what's been happening," Rachel stressed. "He's... I'm sure you've noticed it. The weird mood swings that aren't like swings so much as slides?" Santana nodded. "Okay, well, I was just - I talked to Sam about what Blaine was like after he and Kurt broke up."

"You did what?"

"Relax, I didn't give him any reason to be suspicious," Rachel raised her hands with her palms facing the other girl as if to ward her off.

"You're telling me to relax when we're talking about this?" Santana questioned dryly.

"Okay, fine, then hear me out," Rachel changed her wording with a slight huff, but then regained her seriousness. "I was talking to Sam, and he said that after a while, he got really kind of quiet and never said anything of importance, but then one day he got a little better. And then it happened again. And again. And -"

"I get it, Berry, go on."

"Okay, okay. But does that not sound like what he's been doing recently?" She clasped her raised hands together childishly. Santana ignored the gesture.

"What's your point?" Santana asked. "Are he and Kurt fighting or something? I thought they were in a good place -"

"No, they're not fighting," Rachel shook her head. "And I know that Kurt loves him and forgives him and tries to let him know that, but I don't think Blaine is aware of that, and I think it's messing with him."

"So you think he's got emotional baggage?" Santana raised an eyebrow and flipped her hair back over his shoulder. "Rachel, of all people to say that about, Blaine isn't going to surprise any-"

"No, I'm not!" Rachel interrupted angrily. "Santana, honestly, make a connection! What did Blaine start doing a little after he and Kurt broke up that would make me want to talk to Sam?"

Santana blinked.

And then it clicked.

"Shit," she swore breathlessly, feeling as if the air had completely dissipated from her lungs, "Oh, shit, shit shit. You think he's cutting?"

Rachel flinched back from the word, but answered. "Yes, I -"

"Have you talked to Kurt ab-"

"No, I -"

A huge, booming sound echoed all around the bar, and the amount of screams that went up and people that hit the floor after the bit of roof and ceiling that was hit crumbled inward and slid off the sleek black handgun held by a man standing tall with a mask over his face.

"EVERYBODY PUT YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR!" he bellowed. "HANDS UP!"

When hands obediently shot into the air, Rachel's back turned to Santana so she couldn't see her friend's face, the man turned to Santana and her position by the cash register. The gun lowered and pointed directly at her face.

Run away run away run away run away get Rachel out of here run away run away...