Cooper arrives on Christmas Eve. He enters with a bang of the front door, duffel bag of presents slung over his shoulder and a "ho, ho, ho!" tripping merrily off his lips. With that, the house is loud again, almost cheerful. Blaine's parents have been stepping so carefully around him lately, it's strange to see them smile in a way that's not entirely forced.

Blaine joins in, just enough that no one has a reason to be worried. He smiles his best, sings with Cooper at the piano, laughs in the right places when Cooper tells his latest (well-rehearsed) LA stories.

At some point, he even starts to enjoy them.

Maybe it's because Cooper is hamming it up in a way that Blaine knows is mostly meant for him (he keeps looking at him with the puppy dog eyes and slinging an arm around his shoulders and telling him his harmonies on "Silent Night" were "haunting"). Maybe it's that Blaine is only now remembering how much he's missed Cooper since spring. Maybe it's because something feels genuinely right about his family together like this, sipping eggnog in front of the fire. Maybe it's even the Christmas spirit, catching up to him. It doesn't really matter. Whatever the reason, his smiles are starting to feel real.

It's nice.

&&&&&

It doesn't last.

&&&&&

The holidays are wonderful. His parents take actual time off work while Cooper is there, and they do things they haven't done in years. They go skiing and watch movies together and make popcorn with real butter. They eat dinner at the table every night and tell stories from when the boys were kids. They enjoy each other.

More than that, Cooper takes the time to actually talk to him. He asks Blaine questions about his life, and really, truly listens. Even his parents seem interested in the answers. They look him in the eye without that shadow of a flinch he's grown to expect. He tells them (edited) stories about glee and the musical and student council, he tells them about college applications and about what he's learning in Physics, and he avoids any and all questions about his social life, because he really doesn't want to lie.

Cooper reacts with exaggerated enthusiasm, as if he's playing the role of Brother Who Cares. It doesn't matter. It still feels like enough.

It's just them, one night, the night before Cooper flies back to LA. Blaine is studiously not thinking about that, because he knows that all of this is down to Cooper. The three of them, they're not enough on their own.

Sean-Connery-as-James-Bond is smirking all over the TV. Their parents have gone to bed. Cooper turns to him during a commercial break.

"So, how are you, really?"

Blaine keeps looking at the television, steadfast.

"I'm fine, Coop. Don't I seem fine?"

"I guess. It just seems like...I know he meant a lot to you, you know? You never really get over your first love."

Tears rise up suddenly, choking him and stinging the backs of his eyes. He blinks them away, swallows them down. He wonders if maybe that lady is right – maybe he is paying too much for car insurance.

"It's over now. I'm working on accepting that and moving on."

"That's good, Blainey. That's good. But just know, I'm here to talk if you need to. I mean it. I'm always a phone call away. And I was thinking, you know, if you wanted to, we could probably arrange for a visit this summer. You could come out to LA, learn everything you need to know about the biz. Meet some cute guys. It could be fun."

Blaine smiles, and it's a weird mix of gratitude and something that feels almost like panic. Cooper means well. He doesn't know, he can't know, but the thought of flirting bashfully with some twink under his brother's watchful eye, the way Blaine knows Cooper is imagining it, makes Blaine think he may legitimately throw up. He sips at his water. The feeling dies down.

"Sure," he says. "That would be great."

They don't talk about it, or anything real, for the remainder of the movie. Cooper pontificates on the pressing need for an American James Bond and practices his Scottish accent. Blaine doesn't say anything at all. Cooper doesn't really notice.

&&&&&

This is how it starts:

It's almost midnight. School starts tomorrow. Blaine can't stop staring at the picture of him and Kurt that's been sitting on his dresser since summer. They look so happy, and in love, and the way the sunlight is striking their faces creates the illusion that they're lit from within. That picture was a talisman for him during those first six weeks that Kurt was gone. It doesn't matter what the world throws at them, it says. They'll have each other, always. Nothing and no one can touch that.

He's not sure when he started to lose faith, but he knows now that it was for the best.

Everything about that photo is a lie.

He was so blind, such an idiot, so stubborn. That kind of love isn't something that you're owed. It isn't something that lasts. He couldn't let go, and it tore him open, exposed the festering ugliness beneath a surface he's spent his life cultivating.

He gets out of bed and lifts the frame carefully, fingers trembling. He looks, tries to find the cracks in his smile. It's smooth, like glass.

He hurls it against the wall. It shatters.

He changes, blindly, into the first clean shirt he can find and the jeans he was saving for school tomorrow. He takes his keys and his wallet and slips silently out of the house.

It ends like this:

He's cold. The sun has only just risen, casting clean, white light off of last night's snow. He's lying in the backseat. He probably shouldn't sleep. He should probably be outside. He can't bring himself to move.

There's a knock on the window.

He looks up. He's frozen for a second, rigid with the stupid instinct to just be still, he won't see you if you don't move. He closes his eyes, opens them again, attempts a smile.

At least it can't get worse.

&&&&&

The middle is a blur. There were shots and a few cocktails and maybe a couple beers, and he didn't pay for any of it. There was dancing, definitely, under pretty colored lights that dance and run together in his memory. There was a guy, maybe two, but definitely the one who brought him home and fucked him so hard he can feel it now, and Blaine doesn't like reminders, the next day. He knows he has bruises in weird places, because he can feel them, and he probably has a hickey or two, because Mr. Hummel keeps glancing at his neck like he really would rather not but can't help himself. It's actually a little funny.

Blaine is maybe still a little drunk.

Mr. Hummel hasn't said much beyond "What happened?"

Blaine hesitates. His brain is sluggish, but he knows better than to tell the truth.

"I was on my way to school and hit a patch of ice."

Mr. Hummel's gaze drifts over him and lands back on his face, skeptical. They both know this isn't anywhere close to Blaine's route.

Blaine stands back and watches as Mr. Hummel gets his car hitched up and ready to tow. His parents are not going to be pleased. He imagines his father's face, when he sees it. He almost laughs.

Mr. Hummel looks at him.

"Come on, kid," he says, and sighs. Blaine swallows, and follows Mr. Hummel to the front of the truck. He gets in, looks straight ahead. Mr. Hummel makes no move to start the engine.

"Let's cut the crap. What really happened?"

"I told you. I hit a patch of ice."

"Yeah, well, that part I believe."

Blaine is quiet. He chews on his lip, hopes that Mr. Hummel will just let it go already. He's exhausted and sore and just wants to sleep, and the last thing he wants to do is sit here and be judged by his ex-boyfriend's father. He used to be kind of afraid of Mr. Hummel, especially when he and Kurt first started dating. He'd been intimidating and gruff, and he was so protective of Kurt... But then he'd thawed off, and they'd bonded over football and supporting Kurt's dreams, and he slowly but surely became the best father figure in Blaine's life.

Now, he knows. He's seen Blaine's true colors. But Blaine doesn't have it in him to be afraid anymore.

"I'm not gonna tell Kurt, if that's what you're worried about."

"I'm not worried. I just – I'd like to go home, if that's alright. I can call a cab if that would be more convenient."

Mr. Hummel ignores that.

"Are your parents home?"

"Yes," says Blaine, quickly. He doesn't know if he's telling the truth. He doesn't even know what time it is. He just wants this to be over with.

"Did you call them?"

"No. I'll tell them when I get home."

"Are you going to tell them where you were last night?"

"I was at home, Mr. Hummel."

Mr. Hummel chuckles unhappily.

"I don't know who you think you're kidding. You smell like a bar and you look like hell. I don't think it takes a genius to guess what you were up to."

Blaine looks down at his lap. There's a fresh rip in his jeans at the right knee. He doesn't remember how he got it.

"Blaine. Come on, bud, talk to me."

"Why?"

"I think it's pretty clear there's a reason to be worried, here."

"No, there's not. I'm fine."

"You're still drunk. You crashed your car into a tree. You look like you were on the losing end of a fistfight. You're not fine. I have half a mind to take you to the hospital."

"No. Please, don't. I'm not hurt, I swear."

"I got to tell you, your judgment's not impressing me right now."

"I don't need the hospital. Please. I just want to go home."

"Tell me what happened, and we'll see."

His voice is surprisingly gentle. Blaine looks up. His gaze is gentle, too. Blaine bites his lip again and looks back down at his knees.

"I went out last night. There was a guy, and things got a little...rough. But it was consensual, and I'm 18, so it's not like... Anyway, we fell asleep and then he drove me back to my car, and I thought I was okay to drive. You know what happened next."

Mr. Hummel is silent. Blaine can't look up. Mr. Hummel clears his throat.

"Were the two of you, uh, safe?"

"Yeah," he says quickly. "Yeah, he... Yeah."

"That's good."

Blaine concentrates on breathing, nice and smooth, without a hitch.

"Will you take me home now? Please?"

"Yeah, kid. Let's go."

&&&&&

Mr. Hummel is quiet the entire ride to Blaine's house. He turns on the radio, dials it to classic rock. Blaine is grateful. The ride is only about ten minutes, but it feels like hours.

"You want me to come in with you?"

It's that same strangely gentle tone. Blaine shakes his head.

"No. Thank you."

"I know you don't feel comfortable talking to me about what's going on, but you know where to find me."

Blaine nods, stiffly. He clears his throat.

"I didn't think it'd be you. When I called AAA, I mean."

"I figured."

"Thanks for the ride, Mr. Hummel."

He doesn't wait for a response. He gets out of the truck, limbs still a little clumsy, and hurries up the front walk. Mr. Hummel waits. He doesn't pull away until Blaine is inside the house.

He leans back against the door and huffs out a sigh.

"Blaine! Thank God, I was so worried!"

It's his mother. She swoops in, heels clicking neatly against the entryway tile, and wraps him up in a strong, tight hug. He winces, because he desperately needs a shower and because he's got bruises scattered over his ribs. It's been maybe months since his mother touched him like this.

"You weren't here and you weren't picking up – there is a reason we pay your phone bill, Blaine Devon Anderson, and it isn't so that you can text your friends. Who goes out at this time of the morning, anyway? I was about to call the police."

He doesn't respond. She pulls back, brow wrinkled in concern. She scans his face.

"Sweetheart, what happened?"

Her voice is far kinder than he deserves. He blinks back sudden tears.

"I – I crashed the car, Mama. I ran into a tree."

"What? Are you alright?"

Her hands start to trace over him, face to torso, like she'll be able to sense his injuries through her palms.

"I'm fine. I wasn't hurt, I promise."

"Thank God. How did this happen?"

"I hit a patch of ice."

"How bad is the damage to your car?"

"It's...not good."

"Oh, Blaine."

"I'm sorry."

She starts to say something, probably to give some sort of reassurance, but she pauses. Breathes in. Her eyebrows scrunch together.

"Blaine." Her voice is dangerous. "Have you been drinking?"

A reflexive "no" rises in his throat, but doesn't quite make it off his lips. Her eyes are narrowed in, now, like lasers, taking in his state of dishevelment, the deep dark circles beneath his eyes, the unusual pattern of bruising across his face and neck.

"Did you go out last night, after we went to bed?"

He pauses. He nods. He's tired of lying. It takes so much energy, and right now he's got none. He feels himself sway, vaguely, like he's maybe in danger of falling. It would make sense. He wants nothing more right now than to get horizontal.

"Where did you go?"

"Scandals."

"The gay bar in West Lima?"

He rolls his eyes, because really.

"Yes, Mom, the gay bar. Just because my boyfriend broke up with me doesn't mean I stopped being gay."

"That's not what I thought, Blaine, don't put words in my mouth. You're underage. You shouldn't be going to bars of any kind."

"Teenagers drink all the time, Mom."

"Oh, that's right, I forgot. Other people do it, so it's okay."

"That's not – "

"My son, my teenaged son, stays out all night drinking, crashes his car into a goddamn tree, and has the audacity to tell me I'm overreacting? Blaine, you could have hurt someone. You could have hurt yourself, you could have been killed." She stops, gathers herself. "Honey, you have to understand. What you did wasn't just irresponsible – it was dangerous. It can't happen again."

"I know."

"I don't think you do. I hear you, you know. When you think you're sneaking out. I hear you. I never said anything because I thought – I don't know what I thought. I thought you were going to a friend's house, I don't know, indulging your latent teenage rebellious side. You've always been so responsible. I figured you'd earned my trust. As long as you were happy and your grades stayed up, I didn't think I had to worry. Is that where you've going, all this time?"

He nods. She sighs, face going hard.

"Blaine. You're grounded. Nothing but school and extracurriculars until I say so. Your car privileges have been revoked indefinitely. And I'm making an appointment with Dr. Ramirez for this afternoon."

"Mom, that's not – "

"None of that is negotiable."

"I'm fine, Mom. I don't need therapy. Please don't make me go."

Maybe it's because he's near tears and she can see it, but her expression softens. It doesn't do a thing to calm the desperation that's clawing at his throat. He clenches his fists so hard his fingernails bite into his palm. He breathes in. He breathes out. It feels more like a gasp.

"You're not fine. I've been blind to this for too long, honey. I don't know what you did last night, but I can recognize a cry for help when I see one. You're hurting, darling, and I don't know how else to help you."

That's it. It's gone, every last shred of self-control he possesses has been worn down. Tears are leaking out his eyes and the choking, swollen feeling gives way to sobs. It hurts. They rip through his throat and wail out of his mouth, and it might be the worst thing he's ever felt, standing there with his guts exposed, crying in front of his mother. She wraps him up again, more gently this time, one hand soothing through the matted hair at the back of his head.

"Shh," she murmurs. "It's okay, honey. I've got you. I've got you, baby," over and over, in a loop he half-remembers from childhood, when he used to come to her with nightmares. His knees have gone weak – he rests his weight against her. She's small, only just his height in her tallest heels, but she stays steady, holds him up as he falls completely apart.

"I don't know what I'm doing, Mama," he manages to choke out, into the damp skin where her shoulder meets her neck.

"I love you," she says, fiercely. "I don't care what you've done or what's happened to you. I love you just the same."

It's everything she's never said. He's needed to hear it, so very desperately, so many times, but never more than he does right now. It only makes him sob harder.

&&&&&

He doesn't go to school that day. His mother cancels her clients, citing family emergency.

He sleeps and she makes him lunch. They talk. He convinces her to give up on Dr. Ramirez. He promises to make an appointment with Ms. Pillsbury when he goes back to school.

She tells his father over the phone, at some point when Blaine is asleep. He's mostly just angry about the car, when he gets home. He tells Blaine he'll have to help them pay for his new insurance premiums. He leaves the uncomfortable conversations to his wife.

They eat family dinner at the table. They watch The Voice together – his father even attempts to make commentary. Blaine is so zoned out he doesn't know if he succeeds. He'd rather go up to his room, but his mother doesn't seem to want to let him out of her sight.

They hug him good night. His father looks him in the eye and says "I love you, kiddo."

He falls asleep practically the second his head hits the pillow.