'Move. Get out of here.' His mind urged him. He took a few steps backward then pivoted on his heel to jog back up the stairs and into the main hall. Chris leaned in the doorway, studying him with a smile.

Blaine steadied himself; he nodded a polite hello as he walked toward the door.

Chris nodded back, "Hey, Blaine, where you off to?"

"Gotta get home." Blaine shrugged. Chris was blocking his only exit. "'Scuse me."

"Aw, come on, B, what's your hurry?" Max appeared from behind one of the locker banks, he settled himself down on one of the benches and smiled up at them.

Blaine felt a spike in his adrenaline. He stood perfectly still, looking between the two larger boys. His shoulders sagged briefly in resignation. "Where's Mikey?"

"Right here." Mikey came around the side of another locker bank.

Blaine let out a long breath. He was going to get his ass handed to him, that much was certain. He felt a familiar tickle of fear run up his spine when familiar arms slipped around his waist from behind. "I take it you got my letter, Blaine-y."

Blaine mentally kicked himself. Of course it had been Eric. He stood still beneath Eric's embrace; pulling away would only lead to a punch to his stomach, something he would rather put off for a while.

"I'm so glad you did. Don't worry about the soccer team; maybe next year." Eric let go of him and patted a hand on his shoulder.

"Maybe." Blaine glanced toward the door again, but Chris hadn't moved.

"You have somewhere you need to be, B?" Max followed Blaine's gaze.

Blaine wondered briefly if anyone would think to wonder where he was. His mother was at the country club, his father at work, his friends headed home… no one. "Just somewhere I'd rather be."

Mikey clasped a hand over his heart and grimaced. "Now you're just trying to hurt my feelings, Blaine."

Blaine took a quick inventory of their positions. Chris at the door, Mikey walking toward him, Max still at the lockers. Eric had seated himself on a bench, and he smiled briefly at Blaine when their eyes met.

A rough hand shoved Blaine back a few paces. Mikey had reached him. It would be over soon enough. He dodged around a bench that threatened to catch the back of his knees when Mike shoved him again. Mikey paused in his roughhousing to look to Eric. Eric nodded and waved a hand.

Mike pivoted back around, caught a handful of Blaine's shirt and slammed him against the nearest lockers. Blaine flinched a little, but didn't resist the assault. Mikey held him there for a minute before letting go and taking a step back. "Get on your knees."

Blaine frowned. "…What?"

"I said get on your knees. Now."

Blaine remained where he was, staring dumbly. This wasn't how things went.

Mikey sneered and sent a fist into Blaine's stomach, forcing his knees to buckle when all the oxygen escaped his lungs in one quick gasp. He tried to catch a breath in his burning chest but ended up coughing instead. "There, that's more like it."

Blaine tried to find his feet beneath him, but a sharp kick to his shoulder sent him back down to the floor. "When he tells you to do something, you fucking do it. Stay down."

Blaine stared up at the other two. Yes, this shoving, punching, kicking; this ganging up, it made more sense than a strange request to kneel before them. He waited to see who would come at him next. Mikey and Max were exchanging looks, a silent conversation over who would act. Max leaned over and grabbed the front of Blaine's shirt, pulling at him until he was kneeling the way he did when he went to church with his grandmother. "There, that's better."

Mikey reached down, but he didn't throw a punch or even make a grab for Blaine. He unzipped his jeans.

Blaine stared up at him in confusion. What was this?

"You're a fag, aren't you, B?" Mikey motioned toward his exposed boxers. "Go on then."

Blaine felt nauseous. He shook his head dumbly. This wasn't happening.

"We're waiting, Blaine." Eric called from where he still sat.

Blaine kept shaking his head; words were beyond him in that moment.

Max hauled him to his feet and sent a hard punch to his mouth.

"Watch the face, Max." Eric warned.

"Listen you punkass little faggot. When we tell you to do something. You do it. If you don't, I swear to God, I'll break every bone in your scrawny little body." There was an edge to Max's voice Blaine wasn't used to. A certain steeliness that felt urgent.

Blaine tasted a familiar metallic warmth in his mouth. Blood. He swallowed it down as Max forced him back to the floor, his knees making a loud cracking sound on the tile.

Mikey stepped forward once more and Blaine looked up at him pleadingly. He and Mike had been on the same little league team three years in a row, he couldn't possibly do this to him, "Mike…please…"

"You wanna chat with Max again or are you going to do this?" Mike didn't wait for a response; he grabbed Blaine's hair in his hand and forced him forward.

Blaine's mind went momentarily numb; his only thought was to wonder briefly if they'd kill him for throwing up all over him. He decided they would.

When it was over, he sat back against the locker banks, drawing his knees to his chest and fighting off the urge to gag. He prayed to anything that would listen that he wouldn't have to do it for the others. Mikey zipped his pants and grinned at the others. "I've had better."

"He just needs practice." Chris straightened from the door and stalked toward them, his hands already moving toward his fly.

Blaine gritted his teeth and shoved himself a few inches backward; his back pressed hard against the cold metal. He wouldn't do it again. He couldn't.

"Not today, Chris." Eric was studying Blaine.

Blaine looked to Eric and couldn't help but feel grateful. He'd rather have the shit kicked out of him than go through that again. Eric stood, rolling one shoulder and then the other before making his way toward the pack. He bent over, his hands resting above his knees to study Blaine's face. His voice was soft when he finally spoke. "Come on then and stand up, Blaine."

Blaine stared at him nervously. He didn't understand any of this anymore, let alone Eric's intentions.

"I'm not going to hit you, stupid, just get up off the floor." Eric straightened up and offered a hand toward the smaller boy still huddled in front of him.

Blaine ignored the hand, but shakily got to his feet. He glanced to the unguarded exit, but Chris still stood in his path. He looked around at the group; they all looked to Eric, and Eric looked to Blaine. "Go wash your mouth out."

Blaine remained where he was for a moment, on guard.

Eric pointed toward the bathroom stalls. "Go on."

Blaine glanced over his shoulder constantly as he made his way toward the line of sinks. The others simply stared back. He did as instructed and glanced at himself in the mirror. Pale skin and a split lip stared back. Great, how was he supposed to explain that to his mother? Eric's face appeared behind his in the mirror. "Better?"

Blaine studied him briefly before nodding slowly.

"Good." Eric pressed a hand into the small of Blaine's back, gently guiding him back toward the others.

Blaine sensed it again as he stared at their faces. Something more…sinister was lurking there than usual. Something more than a few bruises to his ribs and swollen knees. He stopped in his tracks.

"Blaine." Eric's voice was a flat warning. But Blaine didn't move.

"I'll ask you one more time, Blaine. Keep going." Eric didn't shove him the way the others did, his hand simply rested on his back.

Blaine turned his head to study Eric's face for some hint of what was going on. His feet remained firmly in place.

"No?" Eric stared back, then sighed. "I'm sorry it has to be like this, B."

Chris and Mikey were suddenly there. Both forming firms holds on each of his arms. They dragged him toward the far wall of the room and pinned his back against the cinder block wall.

Eric sat down on the bench in front of him, his elbows rested casually on his knees as he looked up at Blaine. "We've been buddies for awhile now, haven't we Blaine—you and me and the boys, I mean?"

Blaine remained still between his captors.

"Well, since we've been so close for such a long time, I thought maybe you could tell us some…. personal stuff." Eric glanced toward the others for confirmation.

The other three bobbed their heads in agreement.

"Have you ever kissed a boy, Blaine?"

Blaine felt his cheeks turn hot, but he kept his mouth tightly shut.

Chris laughed as he stared at his face. "I think that can be construed as a yes."

Eric smiled mildly and got to his feet, moving a few feet closer to Blaine, "Messed around with a boy?"

"He has now." Max set the others off in a round of laughter.

Eric didn't laugh; he ignored the group and cupped Blaine's cheeks between both his hands, his face inches from Blaine's, "Fucked a boy?"

Blaine felt sick; he looked away from Eric's eyes and over his shoulder, letting his eyes settle on the teal plastic front of a combination lock on one of the lockers.

Eric chuckled and released his face, "I didn't think so."

Suddenly his captors twisted him around, pressing his face and stomach against the cold cement wall. Blaine struggled only briefly before giving up at trying to free himself from their vice-like grips. He was at a loss once again, his thoughts raced to grasp what was happening.

The two bigger boys slackened their hold just a little, and familiar arms reached around Blaine, but rather than hug against his stomach, fingers pressed downward, unbuttoning his jeans. A rush of comprehension and a surge of panic ignited every synapse in his head. Blaine fought back so fiercely and so suddenly, he was able to break free from his captors. He made a desperate dash toward the door, but Max was in front of him all too soon. He caught an arm around Blaine's middle and dragged him backward. When Blaine still scrambled forward, Chris sent a hard punch to his ribs.

Blaine didn't care. They could hit him as much as they wanted, he was getting out of there. He fought back hard, but then Mikey came to his comrades aid; three jocks against one small drama kid. Still, he writhed his way out from under their hold and their punches.

"Enough." Eric snapped. But, for once, Blaine disregarded him entirely. Adrenaline pumped through his veins with such intensity that it made his ears ring. He threw a punch that landed neatly on Eric's face.

For a moment, the struggle stopped. Blaine pinned between Chris and Max, and all of them staring in awe at what Blaine had done.

A crimson line slid from Eric's nose. He wiped his face and studied the blood streaked across his fingers for a moment before looking back to Blaine. "You want to play rough then, Blaine? That's fine by me."

Blaine renewed his struggle with even greater urgency as Eric stalked toward him. He was going to kill him; he had no doubt in his mind.

Four to one. It was over. Blaine let out a scream, desperate for someone, anyone to save him. Suddenly, he heard a strange sound- a loud cracking. There was a flash; then darkness.

He moaned as his head started to set itself right. It wasn't over. He longed for the hazy confusion of his unconsciousness to return, but only the red in his vision remained as a reminder of any escape from reality. He could hear voices chatting behind him, he wasn't sure whose though, he was too focused on whoever currently pinned him against the cold wall, rhythmically pushing him harder against the cement. Finally, the person—whoever he was—pulled away. Blaine felt his knees buckle beneath him; the linoleum at his cheek soothed his pounding head for a moment.

A fuzzy thought informed him Eric had offered no protection from the onslaught of the entire group this time, but when the thread of thought continued, Blaine squeezed his eyes shut and covered his ears, hoping to drown that little voice out; he didn't want to remember more than he had to. The voices around him continued so he tried to focus on them instead.

"- Probably shouldn't have hit him that hard—"

"—If we leave him and someone finds him—"

"—He's a fucking mess—"

"—He could tell—"

"He won't." Eric's voice. He knew that one. Black Nikes appeared in his vision, "Blaine, get up."

Blaine stared vacantly at the shoes and didn't move.

"Blaine, you stupid faggot, get the fuck up." Mikey's voice sounded panicky; he kicked the smaller boy sharply in the stomach.

Blaine cringed, but only curled his knees up toward his middle in a feeble attempt to protect himself from any further blows.

"You idiot, that only makes things worse." Eric snapped, shoving the larger boy away.

Blaine wanted to remain exactly where he was. Let the blood blind him and the hurt consume him. He didn't know what he had left worth getting up for, but then suddenly he was being hauled up into a sitting position. He groaned when the world spun around him, and Jesus it hurt to sit like that.

"Come on, Blaine-y Boy, up and at 'em." Eric patted him on the cheek. "Can't just sit here."

Blaine lifted a shaky hand toward his face to wipe the blood from his eyes, but he couldn't coordinate the movement. His hand dropped back to his side.

"You got a pretty nasty little cut on your forehead there, kiddo; probably a nice concussion to go with it; you need to puke?" Eric's face was a blur in front of him. "Max, get him to the bathroom. He'll feel better once he pukes."

Blaine didn't resist when a pair of strong arms dragged him toward a bathroom stall. He felt a burning in his throat, a constriction of muscles in his chest. Eric had been right, his mind cleared a bit after he was sick, but it only sharpened the pain. Everything hurt.

Max's voice sounded nervous as he half-dragged Blaine back to the main changing area. "Shit, Eric."

"Hush." Eric replied. "On your feet, Blaine, come on."

Blaine tried to straighten himself up, but he felt a strange disconnect from his feet. He slumped against the nearest locker bank, his fingers pressed into the grates for a hold, but, slippery with blood and still lacking coordination, they quickly lost their grip. Despite his best efforts, he ended up back on the floor.

"Blaine, you're going to do exactly what I say." Eric knelt down and roughly wiped at his face with a paper towel. His vision cleared a little. "You're going to wash your face, find your locker, change your shirt, and you're going to go home. Got it?"

Blaine's eyes wandered around the room. Where was his locker? He shook his head, but then stopped- he felt like his brain was being jarred with every movement.

Eric grabbed a hold of his chin and jerked his head so their eyes could meet. "What's going to happen if someone sees you Blaine, huh? I'll tell you what: they'll send you to the hospital, the police will come, and they'll tell your sweet mama. You want to put her through knowing about any of this?"

"No." Blaine's voice came out in a raspy whisper.

"What about your dad; you think he's going to be so proud of his faggot son for going and letting this happen?"

Blaine didn't respond. He found a grip on the bench nearest him and shakily pulled himself to his knees, he had to lean his shoulder into the lockers to get himself all the way to his feet, but once upright, he pushed off of them clumsily and found his center of balance. Eric was right. They couldn't know.

"Good boy." Eric clapped a hand on his shoulder, causing Blaine to stumble a little. "Chris, he's never going to remember his locker combo. Pick the lock to the office and get him an extra gym shirt."

It was a slow process, and one Blaine wasn't entirely sure he remembered, but finally he was being dropped off from Max's Escalade outside the side of the Seven Eleven. Three butterfly band-aids just barely held his forehead together and before they drove off, Eric repeated his instructions to not go to sleep anytime soon.

Blaine tried to sit down on the curb, but the sharp pain that shot up his spine reminded him that sitting wasn't an option. He stood leaned against a burned out lamppost, his eyes on the giant glowing digital clock below the gas prices; he had thirty-seven minutes until he could slip into the house unnoticed. As he waited for the minutes to tick by, his head cleared and his memories slipped in like the tides- slowly rising forward on him until he felt an all too familiar rush of panic as they began to drown him. He directed his eyes up and started counting; he wanted to squeeze his eyes shut against the onslaught of flashbacks that cleared like Polaroids in his head, but he kept his eyes focused on the lights above. Soon a rhythm of numbers took over his thoughts, and even when the thirty-seven minutes were up, he remained where he was. Counting, counting; counting. Finally, as the lights inside the gas station dimmed and the traffic passing the station thinned, Blaine slowly walked the nine blocks home.

He tiptoed through the door easily enough, but the stairs were their own obstacle entirely. He closed his eyes tightly and clenched his teeth against the scream that threatened to break loose with every step, but somehow he managed to end up in his room. He dropped down onto his bed and let the world spin and blur around him. Despite his exhaustion, he feared sleep—not knowing what memories of that afternoon his unconscious would let slip out and force him to confront, but then, slowly but surely, he found himself not caring.

His life had become a waking nightmare; no monsters of the night could frighten him more.