Trying hard not to hear, but they talk so loud.

I know the goal is to keep me from falling.

Nothing's greater than the rush that comes with your embrace.

But in this world of loneliness, I see your face.

You cut me open and I keep bleeding love.

“You're high again, aren't you?” Christian was giving him that look. That look he always gave Blaine when he was disappointed but didn't want to show it. He was such a bad actor.

“Would the right answer be no? Because if it is, I would like to lock in that response.” Blaine gave a lethargic grin as he seated himself at the piano.

“Blaine...” Christian's arms were crossed over his chest, leaning over the shorter man slightly.

“ I can still work. I didn't take more than one shot... Okay that's a lie, it was more like three. But I'm still sober, I swear.” He spread his fingers over the keys, pressing a few experimentally.

“You've been playing the same four songs the past three days and I can't tell if I'm horribly depressed, or annoyed.” For a straight man, he was one hell of a Drama Queen. “And you've shown up ridiculously high off your ass each time and you keep stealing from the bar. Just because you think that the bartender is stupid enough –which she is not, by the way- not to notice you lifting things doesn't make it any better.”

“You didn't give me a set list so I'm just doing what comes naturally. You know, as an artist does.” Blaine touched a few more keys to finish off his warm up before launching into Against All Odds for the umpteenth time that week.

“Blaine, stop.” He looked up at his friend, fingers continuing to flit over the keys. “You need to go home and get some rest, preferably before you take from the bar and get drunk as well. Drugs and alcohol—“

“Don't mix. Yeah, yeah, so I've been told.” Things would be so much damn easier if Christian didn't give a fuck whether he died or not. Come to think of it, he probably didn't, he just wouldn't know where to hide the body and wouldn't want a mess on his hands.

“I'm asking you to go home. Take the night off.”

“You see, I'd totally be willing if I didn't need the money. So please, take your irritating pestering to someone who will actually listen because right now you're falling on deaf ears.” Blaine turned back to the piano, eyes closing as he swayed slightly with the music.

“Play something else or go home.” And with that he walked away, off to harass the stupid bitch of a bartender who was probably only hired for her tits. He continued playing, Christian wouldn't actually stop him. He needed him. Who else was going to play the piano? His song morphed into Teenage Dream, much to Christian's feasible dismay. Music was for telling what you didn't know how to talk about, right? Right. Therefore, Blaine would play whatever he damn well felt like playing.

About halfway through the night, Christian came back. “Go.” His voice was calm. Too calm. He was never calm. He was an overreacting dramatic prick.

“When my shift is up.”

“No, you're leaving now. You're fired, Blaine. Go home, rest up, do homework or something.”

“You can't just fire me.” Blaine stopped playing, pulling his hands from the keys as if the instrument were going to take off his fingers.

“I'm the manager, I can definitely just fire you.”

“Chris, I need this job, you know I do—“

“Blaine, I said go. Please. You're attracting attention and I really wanted this to go quietly.” He almost looked sad, which was thoroughly disgusting because he wasn't the one losing his fucking job now was he?

Blaine let out a humourless laugh, “Well fuck that. Maybe I'll just get louder. Because I know how much you just dread looking like an asshole.” Blaine's voice had increased in volume slightly as he slid off the piano bench. If Christian was going to fire him, than he would just play dirty.

“Please don't do this now. You can yell and scream at me later, but not now.”

“I will yell and scream whenever I want to, Christian. Because you see, you're not my boss anymore. And I don't give a rat's ass how many customers you could lose. It doesn't go into my pay, and you want to know why? Because I don't have a pay.” Blaine leaned forward, a sardonic smile spreading over his face as people started to stare.

“Blaine.”

“Christian.”

“Stop being an asshole.”

“Maybe later.”

“God, what happened to you that made you so fucked up!?” Blaine went silent, arms curling around himself defensively as he took a step back, eyes flashing to the people watching their exchange. “What fucking happened to you that turned you into... This? You're always high, and if you're not then you're snapping at someone for being in your way or trying to talk to you. You have no friends at all, Blaine. I pay the entire rent because I thought that maybe you just needed some time to get your shit together and sort yourself out but it's been two years and you haven't even tried.”

“It doesn't fucking matter what happened. What matters is that it happened and nothing is going to fix it so butt the hell out and go back to waiting tables.” He turned and left, shrugging on his worn leather coat as he shoved the glass doors open with such a force it was surprising that he didn't end up shattering them. And it was fucking raining, how splendid. Blaine hunched his shoulders, staring at the sidewalk as he began his walk home.

Who did Christian think he was, shoving his way into Blaine's head and bringing back shitty memories that he'd done his absolute best to lock away? Who the hell gave him the permission to make him hurt the way he hurt now. He hadn't felt like this in a long time. The rain quickly soaked through Blaine's coat, drenching his hair and plastering curls against his forehead. His shoes were drenched the second he got out the door, more or less. The people of New York shuffled by, the sidewalk a sea of black umbrellas and writhing bodies eager to get places even at 11p.m. The never ending stream of yellow taxis littered the road, sirens filling his ears from not too far off. Probably another accident caused by some tourist.

Now that Christian had opened the vault of memories, Blaine didn't know how to close it again. His mind was filled with things from the past. A love lost. A house that was never a home.

He sucked in a deep breath, closing his eyes briefly and telling himself that he was having trouble breathing because of the freezing rain seeping through his clothes. Four more blocks. Four more blocks and he would be able to sit down and cut the pain out. He didn't need memories. Memories hurt; they were things that happened in the past. And Blaine certainly wasn't nostalgic.

They were at their usual coffee shop seated across from each other. Blaine's fingers curled around his coffee cup as Kurt took a sip of his mocha.

“What happened this time?” Kurt made a vague gesture to the black eye Blaine was sporting, watching his boyfriend's face.

“Boxing accident?” Blaine nearly strangled himself at how much it sounded like a question. He was always so bad at lying to Kurt.

“Blaine...”

“Kurt, stop. Please. It's fine, it doesn't matter. It'll heal in a few days, it always does. Now, you're leaving tomorrow and I'd rather not spend my last face-to-face conversation with my boyfriend talking about what may or may not have happened during a boxing accident,” Blaine tried to hold himself a little taller, plastering on his stage-smile.

“We've talked enough about New York. This is really serious, Blaine. You need to do something before it gets out of hand.” His voice was eerily calm. How could Kurt be so calm about this when Blaine felt as if his heart were going to beat out of his chest at any moment?

“I can't,” he whimpered, eyes squeezing shut so he didn't have to watch the disappointment crossing over his partner's face.

“Your father is beating you.”

“I know exactly what he's doing! You really think that I don't know that it's not right? That I'm not scared to go home all the time because that's all I have to go back to? I'm so scared, Kurt.” Blaine sunk deeper into his chair, eyes dropping to the table.

“Then do something about it.” Kurt reached across the space between them, fingers prying Blaine's from his cup and holding onto his hand.

“I can't.”

“Yes, you can! You're so much stronger than this Blaine, I know you are. Go to the police. Tell them what he's doing to you.”

Blaine ripped his hand away as if he'd been burned, “I can't! Don't you see that if I went to someone it would just make it so much worse? Where would I go? My mom ran away the same way you're telling me to. Except I will have nobody. Who am I going to go to? You're leaving for New York tomorrow and as much as you say your father likes me, I doubt he'd want to take me in. And I don't want to live with some stranger. It's not as easy as you make it seem.”

            “So help me understand. Why is running away so bad? Why is getting help so bad? He's hurting you, for god's sake!”

“He's my dad, Kurt!” Blaine stood up from his chair, pulling his bag on his shoulder. “He's all I have left! Mom's gone. You're leaving. Nobody else cares. He's the only person who still loves me. He looks after me, and sure sometimes he gets stressed out, but he always apologizes. It's like if your dad were to beat you. Your mom is gone and he's all you really have left. If he hit you, would you turn him in? Would you lose the one person that matters the most just because sometimes he has a temper?” Blaine turned on his heel, starting towards the door.

“Blaine, stop, please just listen to me! It's not the same. He's been hurting you since you were nine years old, do you really think that's okay? Your mom would've taken you with her if she could've, but—“

“No, Kurt, she wouldn't have! Because my mother, contrary to your belief, really doesn't give a damn about me!” He shoved open the doors to the coffee shop, trying to ignore Kurt's footsteps chasing after him all the way to his car.

“You're being unreasonable.”

“Oh, I'm being unreasonable?” He choked out a laugh, arms spread out at his sides. “How the fuck—“ Kurt took a slight step back at the swear “—am I being unreasonable? You just don't get it. And you never will.” He dropped his bag to the pavement beside the car as he unlocked the door.

“That's not fair and you know it.”

“What's unfair? That my father hits me and I can't do a thing about it? Or that I have a boyfriend who is leaving me alone with that…that monster?”

“Courage, Blaine.”

“Excuse me?” He turned back to Kurt who was standing with his arms crossed tightly over his chest.

            “You're a hypocrite. How can you tell me to be ‘courageous', to ‘stand up in the face of my demons', but then you run away from yours like a goddamn coward?” his voice was back to that menacingly calm tone.

“This is nowhere close to the same thing!”

“You know what? Fine. Have it your way. I tried to understand, I tried to help you, but how am I supposed to do that if you won't let me in? I'm going to New York tomorrow, Blaine, I can't be held back by somebody who tells people to do one thing but then won't follow through on his own advice. That's not fair to me and it's not fair to you. I love you, you know that. But I just can't do this anymore.” And then he was gone, striding across the parking lot with shoulders hunched. And Blaine didn't know how to feel anymore.

Blaine shoved open the door to the apartment, trying to tell himself that the trails of water over his face were from the rain. That no matter how salty it tasted, he definitely wasn't crying. His nose was running because he was getting sick. That was the only option.  

Blaine shrugged off his coat as the steel door slammed shut behind him and he reached back to lock the deadbolt. He kicked off his shoes as he went, drenched socked feet leaving wet footprints across the carpet. His jeans came next, the sodden denim heavy on his hips as they came off nearly of their own accord. The red polo he'd chosen to wear was as good as ruined anyway as he ripped the cotton blend over his head. Blaine threw open the door to his bedroom, nearly tripping himself in the haste to remove socks and grab the shoebox from under his bed.

Blaine sat on the edge of the bed, fingers pushing around the shards of battered and worn once transparent glass; rims tinged an ungodly crimson, as he searched for a piece where the edges weren't too dull. Blaine reached into his nightstand with the suitable sliver clenched in his teeth, fingers finding purchase on his syringe.

There was a certain peace that came with drugs. The feeling of floating was certainly a major plus. His eyes were a little blurry, but whether it was from the heroin or tears, he couldn't tell. Blaine dragged the shard of glass over his forearm once more, four perfectly spaced, even strokes against his skin. One for each year he was left without Kurt. Each year he was left alone to try and make it by himself.

The first stroke had been a little messy, the line shivering in a few places after starting off clean; just like the year had. That year that Kurt had left because he wasn't strong enough.

The second was a little less orderly, more shaky and uneven. The year after Kurt had left and when all this had started. When he got into drugs and began cutting himself with shards of the glass heart he'd got as a gift for Kurt and inevitably smashed.

The third contained a little less weaving; starting with a bit of a wobble and evening out gradually over the length of the cut. The third year he was alone. Blaine started college at his grandfather's insistence and bribery of paying for all school expenses. It was also a way to escape his father. Things had started to get better that year. He was still into drugs, and still occasionally hurt himself to stave off the pain of another day, but things were better.

He let his eyes follow the lines, the rich crimson of the blood dripping off his fingers reminding him of red and yellow roses, warm, kind, sweet, loving blue-green eyes. Home. Blaine bit into his tongue and let out a little pained noise at the memories he wished would finally get out of his head.

The fourth was perfectly smooth, starting strong just like the fourth year. He'd moved on. He'd fucked countless men, got a job, found a place to stay where he didn't have to hide practically everything he owned.

But at the end of the gouge, the wobble was back.