At first, it's just to appease his mother. Ms. Pillsbury is very nice, but she's a little...timid. She gives him two pamphlets right at the beginning of their first session, a wide, earnest smile on her face: So, You've Hit Rock Bottom... and Depressed or Just a Mess? The jury is still out as to whether they're more offensive or refreshing.

She asks him questions. He lobs back the safest answers he can without actively lying. Her smile never falters, but it does dim, a little, by the end. He's sure she's remembering how easily he opened up the last time, when he and Kurt came together and he got so carried away.

They meet three times a week, during the first half of his lunch. She encourages him to communicate more openly with his parents. She tells him he should work harder at cultivating his friendships. She gives him more pamphlets, one memorable one filled with friendly cartoon representations of the ten most common STDs. He throws it in the trash as soon as he leaves. He can only imagine the hell he'd be put through if he were caught with it.

"Do you think you might be depressed?" she asks him one day.

He doesn't even have to think about it.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because that would mean there was something wrong with my brain, right? Some sort of chemical imbalance?"

"I suppose."

"I don't need an excuse, or a way to avoid taking responsibility. It's not like I did any of this because I couldn't help myself."

"So then why did you?"

Because I'm a needy, clingy mess, and I lost control. Because I'm weak. Because I don't know the first thing about real love, but sex is easy. Because I don't recognize myself anymore.

"I don't know."

He finds that's just as true.

She looks at him, her gaze sharp and bright.

"You know, Blaine, one of the things that's helped me the most with my OCD is learning to accept that there are certain things that I can't control."

"That's different."

"Why is it different?"

"You have a...condition. I don't have any problems that I didn't create for myself."

She searches his face a moment, looking for something that she doesn't find. She leans back in her chair and smiles tightly.

"Alright."

He looks away, unable to shoulder the weight of her disappointment.

"How have you been coping, lately?"

"I haven't totaled any more cars, if that's what you're wondering."

"I'm more interested in how you're feeling."

"I'm fine. Honest. My parents have been really great with everything."

It's true, and his smile is about as sincere as it can be, considering. Ms. Pillsbury's doe eyes go big and round with earnest sympathy. She's gentle, so gentle when she leans forward and says:

"You haven't been feeling any urges to self-harm?"

He gapes, he can't help it.

"I don't...do that, Ms. Pillsbury. I would never do that."

"There's more than one way to hurt yourself, Blaine. From what you've told me – "

"I think I'd better go. Lunch is almost over, and I want to make sure I have time to eat with my friends."

He smiles politely. It was rude, to interrupt her like that, but he had to make her stop talking. She nods, equally polite. He slings his book bag over his shoulder and hurries to the door.

"See you Friday?" she calls as he's leaving. He tosses her a quick nod.

He makes it to the parking lot before he remembers. He's stuck.

He heads back in to the Astronomy classroom and works on his Calculus homework until the bell rings.

&&&&&

He still feels the urge, late at night. He has Sebastian's number, still. He could call, and Sebastian would come pick him up, and they could go out together, or maybe just back to Sebastian's house. If he takes the back door and makes it back before 3 AM, his parents will never know. It would be so easy. It would be nice to feel someone look at him like he's something beautiful.

Ms. Pillsbury is wrong. He didn't do it to hurt himself – he did it to stop hurting.

He gets as far as getting dressed, sometimes. He pulls up his contacts and hovers his thumb over Sebastian Smythe, but he never presses down. He thinks of calling a cab, but he doesn't do that, either.

He keeps imagining the look on his mother's face, if she found out. It never even occurred to him, before, that she would, but now... He can't lose whatever trust she still has in him. He wants to deserve her love. He wants to do this one thing right.

So he turns off his phone and hides it in his sock drawer. He purges his room of any lingering reminders of Kurt, puts them in a box and buries it in his closet, like Ms. Pillsbury suggested. It's ironic and a little sad, putting Kurt in the closet, but it does help.

He pads down to the basement and the heavy bag, when his skin starts to itch. He fractures his left pinky, one night, but at least he doesn't have to lie about it. His dad signs him up for lessons at his gym when he finds out.

Ms. Pillsbury suggests that he channel his feelings into music. She lights up when she tells him, like it's a solution she's been searching for, long and hard, like it's the solution. Blaine is...ambivalent. He hasn't felt much like singing in months, but there's a part of him that's started to yearn for it.

She tells him he should start participating more in glee club. He smiles and says he'll try. He forgets that Mr. Schue has no qualms about informing on him.

She tells him to pick a song to sing to her for their next meeting. He sings "Live While We're Young," and it feels kind of awesome. She claps wildly and smiles widely and gives him a standing ovation. He takes a bow. She clears her throat delicately and clarifies that she meant for him to pick a meaningful song.

"Sure," he says, smile coming quick to his lips.

He tells her, next time, that he forgot.

She sighs.

"You don't have to sing it for me if you don't want to, Blaine. Just – find something that speaks to you and sing out your feelings. I know the auditorium is free most days, or you could do it in your room if you'd like more privacy. It doesn't really matter. I just think you'll find it helpful."

He tries, he really does.

She doesn't bring it up again.

Mr. Schue gives him a solo for Regionals – he won't take no for an answer, and Blaine is sure he knows why. Tina congratulates him. Artie goes in for a fist bump. Brittany hugs him tightly and says she missed him. Sam pats him on the shoulder with a hearty "Welcome back, bro."

"Thanks, guys, but I've actually been here the whole time."

Brittany cocks her head.

"I thought that was your evil twin."

Eventually, his parents ease out of panic mode and stop treating him like a bomb that's about to go off. They use the insurance money to get him a new (used) car and give him the keys on a probationary basis.

Sam invites himself over one afternoon to "hang out." Blaine doesn't have the heart to turn him away. They listen to music and watch bad science fiction on Netflix. Blaine's mother invites him to stay for dinner, eyebrows waggling behind his back in a mortifying way that Blaine knows he has to nip in the bud.

"Sam is straight," he hisses, while Sam is washing up in the bathroom. "He is my friend and he is straight."

"Okay," she says, lips quirking up in an amused smile. "But it would be okay if he weren't. Or if you wanted to bring by any other cute boys you may know."

"I know."

"Good." She kisses his cheek and smiles at him, warmly. She starts to hum something tuneless as she turns back to the stove. He watches her for a moment. His heart starts to swell. It feels suddenly like...like he lost his mother, somewhere along the way, and here she is.

He hugs her from behind and hooks his chin over her shoulder.

"Thanks, Mama."

She smiles, again, and swats him lightly upside the head.

"Go wash up for dinner."

&&&&&

He's lying awake one night. It's bad. His brain won't stop, images on a loop. Good, bad, the things he had and the things he lost and everything he destroyed. That look people get when they realize they were wrong about him. He's got adrenaline running through him, he can feel it speeding up his blood and making his fingers shake. He can almost actually feel hands on his body. He's not sure whether he wants more to make it real or to make it go away. He's about five seconds from screaming.

He doesn't. He gets up, hovers over his sock drawer a moment before turning violently away. He has his keys in there, now, too. He reaches instead for his bathrobe.

He goes downstairs, holding onto the bannister for fear his trembling legs will give out. He pauses in front of the basement door. He makes a decision. Not tonight.

The piano in the den is his. They bought it for Cooper when he was nine and just starting his lessons, but Blaine is the one who took to it. Cooper tried piano, violin, oboe, tuba, guitar, and even harp before finally deciding that music lessons were a waste of time. Blaine started at four and stuck with it until his parents started funneling their money into Dalton and couldn't afford his lessons anymore. It didn't matter, then. He had the Warblers.

He hasn't played, really played, in years. He fiddles around with accompaniments, but it's not the same.

He shuts the door carefully, quietly. His parents' bedroom is directly above. He dims the lights up just enough to see and settles himself at the bench. Already, he can feel his heart beginning to calm. He doesn't bother finding his old sheet music, just sets his fingers to the keys and plays.

He closes his eyes. It's like his fingers are flying, like he's flying, flitting through the air on hummingbird wings. He doesn't know what he's playing, doesn't care. He lets his body fall back into the rhythm he used to know like breathing. It's like...there's been music inside him this entire time, aching to be set free, beating at the bars of his ribcage, and now, finally...

The door creaks open. His fingers stutter over the keys, then stop completely. It's his father, squinting in the low light. His hair is rumpled from his pillow and his robe is tied loosely around his waist.

"Sorry," says Blaine, jumping up from the bench. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"I know, son. That's...It's been while since I heard you play like that."

"Yeah. I – I was playing as softly as I could, I didn't think – "

"It's fine. We sleep light, you know that."

"I forgot."

His father yawns, then sits heavily on the couch. It squeaks, slightly, as he makes himself comfortable.

"Have a seat."

Blaine sits back on the piano bench, stiff with apprehension.

"Are you still having trouble sleeping?"

He looks so genuinely concerned. Blaine looks away.

"Sometimes."

"Are you talking about it with that counselor of yours?"

Blaine bites his lip.

"Yeah."

"Look, Blaine, I just... I want you to do whatever you need to, alright? If boxing helps, great. If it's playing piano in the middle of the night, we'll get ear plugs." He pauses. Blaine still doesn't look up – he's not sure he knows how. His father huffs a sad sigh. "I know we didn't handle things all that well the last time things were...bad, for you. I know I don't always understand. But your mom and I, we really are trying to do better."

Blaine swallows down the lump of emotion that's lodged itself in his throat.

"I know."

"I hope you know you can come to us. If you need anything, I mean."

"I know."

"Now, why don't you play me something?"

Blaine looks up, at that. His father is smiling, warm and encouraging. He remembers when he used to put on concerts, when he was a kid. He'd make his own tickets and set up two chairs in just the perfect spot and beg his parents to attend. They'd smile stiffly the whole way through, eyes glazed over and half their attention on the stock market or whatever else was more important that day. They never really did like classical music.

"That's okay. I know you have to get up early tomorrow."

His father smiles, thoughtfully.

"I've missed this, you know. Having music around the house. You used to play all the time, and so beautifully. I used brag about you, when all my colleagues would complain about their little darlings trying to learn the recorder or, ugh, the violin – I know you couldn't have been more than five, but you must remember what it was like those two weeks that Cooper took it up."

Blaine does. He thought Cooper was torturing a cat and tried to bust down his door to come to its rescue.

"You did?"

"Of course. You've always been so talented."

"I – thank you."

"Now play me something, will you?"

Blaine smiles.

"Okay. What would you like to hear?"

"Whatever you feel like."

He thinks a moment, then starts to play. It's something fast and light that he learned when he was 12 and played so much his father started asking him to shut the door when he practiced. He always liked the way it felt, in his fingers. He glances up, a few times, just to check. His father is smiling faintly, his eyes closed. Blaine is a little worried he's fallen asleep.

"I remember that one," he says, when Blaine has finished.

"I used to play it a lot."

"Mm."

He smiles, to himself more than to Blaine. He gets up, brushes out the wrinkles in his robe.

"Thank you," he says.

"Should I – "

"Keep playing as long as you want, son."

"Okay."

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Dad."

He shuts the door as he leaves, softly.

Blaine yawns. He strokes one hand over the smooth, polished wood of the soundboard. He gets up, turns out the light, and pads softly up to his room.