Prologue 

“Son, you can’t smoke in here-“ a woman began, speaking to a curly, dark-haired boy as he was entering the station. One hand was tucked into the pocket of his leather jacket; the other was holding a freshly lit cigarette to his lips.

The jacket he wore was clearly old and worn- the elbows having visible creases and a small tear here and there. “Screw off, lady,” the boy mumbled to her, but all the same snuffed out his cigarette. Afterwards, he simply tossed the still slightly smoking object onto the ground and walked away from it without looking back.

The short-framed boy was being lead in by what appeared to be his father. His father was much taller than him, gray already peppering his short, dark hair as well as his facial hair that was a little more than scruff at the moment. His father’s jaw was set with both hands shoved into his jeans and he looked like he’d rather be anywhere but here.

His father and the boy were quiet the rest of the walk to their destination- stopping only when they came to a door. “Go on, then,” he father said with an exasperated sigh, “Let’s get this over with.”

The boy shrugged and opened the door, greeted by a heavier set man at the desk, eyes rising from reading a file on his desk as the two entered. “Have a seat,” he invited, even though his tone was far from inviting.

Both did as they were told, the younger of the two slouching as he did. The man behind the desk, Mr. Jonathan Harris as the nameplate read, examined the boy with narrowed eyes. He could see faded bruising across his facial features, a light green color still surrounding his left eye.  He glanced down at the file for a moment longer before placing it to the side and leaning forward on his desk, “Blaine Anderson, I assume?” he asked in an uninterested voice.

When the boy didn’t even bat an eye to the question, his father groaned, “Yes. Blaine Anderson. And I’m his father, David Anderson.”

Mr. Harris looked over at David with a small nod of thanks before looking back to Blaine; “It is my understanding, Blaine, that you landed a ninth grader in the hospital after shoving him countless times into a locker. The only reason you didn’t cause that kid more damage is because some of the football players got involved. Is that true?”

Blaine showed his first hint that he was actually listening to the man at all, frowning deeply, “If those fuckers hadn’t caught me off guard, I could’ve kicked their asses too.”

“Blaine- don’t use that language!” his father snapped, but Blaine merely shrugged.

“You do understand that if you were a year older, you could be serving jail time?” the man asked him. Blaine went back to not responding.  The man groaned, “Son, I’ve only got two choices. I could send you to juvie -which will make a big black mark on your record that you really don’t want- or I could sign you up for community service. The Candy Stripers always need new volunteers.”

Blaine showed signs of life again, “Fucking Candy Stripers? Going around the hospital to sick kids, telling them how everything’s going to rainbows and butterflies? Fuck that shit.”

His father rolled his eyes; “You don’t have the last word in this, Blaine. I do. I’m still your father and you’re still a minor. I will not have my son sent off to juvie.” As Blaine gave his father a sharp look, Mr. Harris was already digging out some paperwork.

“I’m not spending three hours of my day at a hospital trying to comfort sick kids. It’ll be like being stuck in the middle of a fucking St. Jude’s commercial. Fucking Sarah McLachlan music playing wherever I go.” Neither of the grown men in the room knew what he was talking about enough to correct him about him having his commercials wrong. 

“My say,” his father reminded him as he leaned forward to sigh the papers, Blaine sulking further into his seat. If you looked close enough, you could see the steam leaving his ears from his obvious fuming.

---/---

Blaine was so through with this day. He was ready to split and skip his last two periods- maybe have a smoke under the bleachers before he left. Besides, he couldn’t get home too soon or his dad would know he skipped class and that was another three-hour rant he didn’t want to hear again.

He was already digging in his pocket for his lighter when he heard it. “Faggot.” It was murmured- but still loud enough that he knew it was meant for him to hear it. His head snapped towards the source of the slur. It was a ninth grader. He didn’t know his name but he was one of the new kids on the football team who let the new found popularity go to his head. It made him think he could act like a douchebag and this kid needed to be reminded of his place. And needed to be reminded that he couldn’t mess with Blaine Anderson and get away with it.

Cutting off the stupid boy’s laughter, Blaine lunged at him. He shoved him hard against the closed lockers- the boy’s chest colliding with metal. “Hey-!” the boy yelped out.

“You gotta learn to watch your tongue, boy,” he sneered at him, pulling him back by his collar before slamming his head into the metal once again- hard.

People in the hall stopped to stare, gaping at the scene for a moment. But none of them interfered. At least until two of the senior quarterbacks pushed their way through the crowd, grabbing at Blaine’s jacket and prying him off the boy before tossing him to the floor- but by this point the boy’s nose was bleeding profusely and defiantly looked broken.