The bleacher above them echoes with hurried footsteps, chattering voices filled with hints of curiosity whispering down at Blaine, and he can feel himself start to tremble.

I could die here.

“Could is the magic word here.” Brittany squeezes his hand.

“That’s reassuring.” Blaine mutters, not moving his gaze from the frantically-moving group of cheerleaders in the field beyond. Brittany points at a bucket of water, tugging Blaine’s hand along with hers. “Is it just me, or…?”

Blaine glances at it, and a frenzy of panic shoots through his veins when he sees the water rippling slightly. “It’s shaking.” He says, palms suddenly growing sweaty. “So that means…?”

“I’m guessing earthquake, but you can never be-” Brittany’s reply is cut off as the ground noticeably begins to shudder frantically below them, the curious whispers above them growing louder, footsteps fleeting down the staircase towards Coach Sue’s slightly-animalistic roars.

 “Wait, aren’t they-”

Brittany squeezes his hand. “I told you – we can only use memories to see things. We can’t change what’s already happened, and we can’t interfere with too many people.”

“So-”

“-it’s going to be the same as if a real earthquake were happening-“

“-but we’re the only ones who can get out, so they’re all gonna die?”

“Only people who would die in a real earthquake.”

“So some of them are gonna die.” Blaine breathes out, shakes his hand from Brittany’s grasp.

“They’re not real.”

“But-“

“This is what I meant, Blaine – this is an illusion for everyone but us, because everyone but us isn’t real!”

Brittany clutches at his elbow, drags him out of the bleachers as the ground starts to shake a little more heavily. “We have to move.”

Blaine lets his feet stutter through the dirt as he runs, and Brittany suddenly seems a lot lighter on her feet than he feels. She pulls him through nooks and around corners as the world crashes around them, away from prying eyes and crumbling buildings until they reach the football field again.

“Wait, won’t the ground crack open or something?” Blaine shouts over the distant rumble. He can practically feel her eyes rolling at him.

“That’s a myth!”

“Why – what – why are we here?”

“Don’t look back.” She says, tugging him to the centre of the field.

“Why-“ Blaine starts, and for some stupid reason, he turns around.

The bleachers have crumpled underneath pieces of fallen building, trapping a few unconscious Cheerios from the waist downwards in a sandwich of cheap metal and brick. He can see blood on a few people, another few limping, none recognizable enough so that he can put a name to a face.

Brittany finally stops, lets go of his arm, takes his hand.

They’re not real.

“It’s almost over.”

And almost as soon as she says it, the distant rumble ceases, and Blaine’s blinking to make sure he’s not seeing things and there is McKinley High standing before him, nothing but a few piles of glorified rubble.

Blaine clears his throat. “It’s an improvement.”

Brittany snorts, and the next second he blinks open his eyes he’s staring into the spaceless black void again.

“Wow?” She asks, shaking out her hand and cracking her knuckles.

Blaine can’t really do anything but part his mouth a little.

“Wow.”

Brittany steps forward, to a frame with a darker picture, and Blaine grabs her hand just before she touches it.

“So if that was an example…?” He prompts, dragging her fingertips away from the edge of the frame.

“This is gonna be worse.” She confirms, still not moving her gaze from the shadowed room within the picture.

“Do we have to?”

Brittany freezes, spins around to face him. “What?”

Blaine’s small smile fades a little, and he brings his free hand up to try and help elaborate. “It’s just that – well, that was pretty tough by itself, and we are still in our pyjamas, so…”

“Ah.” Brittany doesn’t respond further than that.

“I could if you wanted to, I guess-”

“-tell me, Blaine, do you think I want to?”

Blaine splutters for a second. “Mayb-”

“-of course I don’t fucking want to!” She wrenches his hand away from hers, taking a sudden step back. “You don’t think I’m exhausted? You don’t think that I’m sick of running around in my own head? I-” she stops, stares at her feet for a second that’s far too long for Blaine’s liking. Sighs. “I’m sorry.”

“No, no, it’s okay.” Blaine pauses. “We don’t have to do anything.”

“But you still want to know why I’m all defensive on drugs, right?”

“You could just tell me instead.” Blaine deadpans. “That example wasn’t exactly the greatest wake-up call. Especially at four a.m.” He nudges her shoulder. “You can trust me – I am your friendly neighbourhood superhero, after all.”

“I know I can, I just – I’ve only ever told Santana, and I don’t even know if she remembers the whole thing because she was drunk.”

Blaine pauses. “You know, Brittany, you’re not the only one who hates to see people getting hurt.”

Brittany scoffs, smiles a little. “When I was about eight, my parents had their picket-fence fantasy well on its way to being reality; my father was the main breadwinner, being one of the most well-respected lawyers in our town, and my mother was to stay at home to complete tax returns and clean and raise me into a proper little lady.”

Blaine nods at her to continue.

“Daddy was staying late in at the office most nights, and Mum starts getting a little suspicious so she packs one of those picnic lunches, basket and all, walks into his office to surprise him and-”

“-let me guess – there was a pretty little blonde bent over the desk, horizontal folk-dancing with Daddy.”

“A pretty little blonde named Eli Collins.”

Blaine raises an eyebrow. “I don’t even know if I could keep it up for someone named Eli.”

Brittany snorts, and her shoulders begin to relax. “Anyhow, after all the horizontal folk dancing,” Blaine snorts, “my parents slowly began to drift apart. My dad took up coke, and a little while after that mum divorced him.” She pauses, and Blaine squeezes her hand. “He controlled his usage just fine, but he got in trouble with one of his dealers. The law firm found out and fired him, and then he definitely couldn’t pay his dues and long story short, he was found in a gutter ten days later.”

Blaine breathes out slowly, in slowly, out slowly. “Can I-“

“-yeah.”

He opens his arms, and she steps forward.

“I’m sorry.”

He can feel wetness seeping through the thin cotton of his pyjama shirt.

“It’s okay.”

They separate, and Blaine wipes a little at his own eyes.

“Should we go?” Blaine asks, stumbling for unemotional ground.

Brittany nods. Hums in agreement.

“…How do we…go, exactly?”

“We click our fabulous ruby-red heels together three times and sing ‘there’s no place like home’ in perfect pitch.” She deadpans.

Blaine chuckles for a loud second. Brittany doesn’t respond.

“Do we actually do that?”

“No.”

Thank god.

“All you have to do,” she says simply, placing her fingers at his temple, “is exactly what you did to get in here.”

“Which is?” Blaine says obliviously.

Brittany smiles. “Don’t move.”

Pins-and-needles flood into his head and makes him woozy, into his eyes, his neck, shoulders, arms, fingertips and he blinks and-

-and the kitchen’s back. The pressure of the table on his back is there again and it feels like he’s been sitting there for years because he’s pretty sure there’s a table-shaped groove in his ass now and-

“Took you long enough.” Santana’s voice is croaky, hoarse. She sniffles.

“Yeah, well, we had a lot to discuss.” Brittany replies, not looking at her girlfriend.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

There’s a quiet, not-awkward moment before Blaine comes to his senses, stretching his mouth in an obnoxiously loud yawn and stretching his arms above his head.

“As totally awesome as those cupcakes were,” he says, standing and heading for his staircase, “I should really get some sleep for school tomorrow.”

“Blaine, wait.” It’s Santana, crossing over to him in quick strides.

“Yeah?” He says, blinking his eyes. He wasn’t lying; he really needs to sleep.

“I just wanted to say thank you.” She says in a hushed whisper, glancing back to Brittany.

“What for?”

“For whatever you did in there.” She says softly, meeting his gaze with grateful eyes. “Because it worked. So thank you, and goodnight,” she steels her face, “Blazer.”

He smiles at her, tips an imaginary hat that gets a smile back and heads up to his room.

Blaine’s got the covers back, one foot underneath his sheets when the idea occurs to him. He moves to stand in front of his mirror, takes one look at himself – tousled, un-gelled hair, half-wet, dirty pajamas – and closes his eyes. Breathes deep. Opens.

You can do this.

“I love you, Kurt Hummel.”

It’s the easiest thing he’s ever said.