You think I never could have seen it all,

It seems you want me just to watch me fall.

Your fingers and your lips are beautiful,

Your fingers and your lips are killing me.

            Blaine woke up in his bed, jolting upwards with a start and a gasp. He didn't remember being moved. God, he didn't even remember passing out. Blaine brought a hand to his head with a groan that sounded probably a lot more like a desperate whimper. Fuck. His hair was still wet, though the shining layer of sweat that seemed to be coating every inch of his body would be the explanation for that. The sheets that were now twisted in a way he didn't think possible around his ankles were also splotched with darkened patches.

            Blaine squeezed his eyes shut, twining fingers into his hair in an attempt to stop the room from spinning that way. Because maybe tearing out his hair would kill off his dizziness, of course. It seemed like such a regular morning, if his life could even be called that anymore, despite the curling in his gut and the throbbing of his head and the downright not regular feeling of literally everything.

            The grey light still filtered pitifully through his drawn blinds, no matter how many attempts he made to block out the sun, it always managed to seep its way in. His room still looked normal, from the brief glimpse he'd caught of it; door shut, closet opened, light off. But holy sweet hell, everything ached.

            Blaine rolled halfway off the bed, hands now reaching and grasping for his nightstand in a familiar douse of déjà vu. Something had happened last night and he couldn't fucking remember anything besides curling up on the bathroom floor. He slowly opened his eyes, wincing against the dim light as he fought to open the drawer. And it was fucking empty.

            “Why the fuck can't you?” Blaine snarled, fingernails catching in the barely-there grooves in the tile. “I'm dying.”

            “Because I can't. And you're not dying, you're in withdrawal.” Christian's voice seemed so far away except Blaine knew he wasn't. He knew that he was right there giving him that stupid condescending look that he donned almost twenty-four-seven.

            “Might as well be as good as dying.”

            “You'll be fine.”

            “But what if I'm not? Christian, I need it. I didn't just start using for shits and giggles. I started because I needed it.” His stomach gave an unhappy roll and Blaine wrestled himself off the floor to bend over the porcelain toilet bowl once more as he heaved.

            “You'll be fine.” God, why the fuck did he have to keep repeating that? What the hell did he know? Nothing. He knew nothing. He wasn't some past junkie who knew what he was saying. He wasn't a psychiatrist or a councillor; he was the manager of some shitty piano bar for Christ sake.

            “Fuck you,” Blaine spat, growling into the bowl and glaring up in the direction of his roommate's silhouette. “Just fuck you.”

            “Blaine—“

            “Don't. You don't know what you're saying. Who the hell do you even think you are? You can't tell me what I will and won't be. If I die because of this, that's on your hands you self-centered, pretentious, moronic, arduous, mundane asshole.” And shit, half of the words didn't even make sense to his foggy haze of a mind but they were just words to spit out in the hope that Christian would take insult. The other man seemed to just silently observe his diatribe, as if it were directed instead at a third party. “What have you done? Have you ever done drugs? Have you ever felt good about yourself for one God damn minute because of something else other than yourself? It feels so inexplicably outstanding. So you cannot come in here and tell me that I'll be fine without the one thing to make me happy.”

            “You're being overdramatic.”

            “I said fuck you. You don't know what it's like.”

            And there were all the memories that had, for some mysterious reason, ejected themselves from his mind until now. He'd probably knocked himself out and Christian had carried him to bed.

            “Christian,” he croaked, arms shaking where he fought to hold himself up, “help.” Asking for help made him sound like such a baby. He shouldn't need help. Not from his roommate, not from anybody. He was supposed to be able to take care of himself, dammit. Except Christian didn't come.

            Blaine couldn't explain why he started crying. He couldn't explain why he just slid off the edge of his mattress and curled up on the carpet and just cried for all he was worth, which was, in reality, quite little. His nose was running everywhere but he didn't give a shit enough to do anything about it; the tears just seemed to mingle with the sweat and even though he was so fucking hot, he was so cold.

            “I need this. Please.” He was a wreck. It'd only been two or three days and he was standing in the middle of a classroom that wasn't even his and staring pleadingly over Cameron's desk. “Please. Fuck, I'm dying.”

            “I gave you enough. What did you do with it all?” The older man quirked a grey brow, eyes narrowing slightly as he folded his hands over the surface of the wood.

            “I had a really bad day and ended up using most of it; a few bad days, actually. Please help me, Cam.” He was shaking, fingers clenching reflexively against the material of his flimsy sweater. “I don't know what's wrong. Did I over-use? Is this what overdose feels like?”

            “Blaine, if you overdosed, you'd probably be dead. You're in withdrawal. You said you haven't used for three days?” Blaine nodded, which was in hindsight a bad idea because it just made his already sloppy brain just seem to turn even more into mush. “I can give you enough just to keep you floating and take off the edge of the worst symptoms, but I don't have very much to begin with so you have to wait for more. Use wisely and don't take it out on the drugs if you have a bad day. Act like a normal human being and go for a walk or something.”

            It became the reason that Blaine didn't need to use daily; sometimes even not weekly. He could almost go up to three weeks heroin free before he started to feel anything. He knew that after that first taste of a churning stomach and sweat-soaked bed sheets that he never wanted to go back and experience the more. He didn't know what could be worse than what he was already dealing with at the time. Turns out it could get muchworse.

            Blaine's face was pressed against the grainy carpet and he was curled into a ball, fingers grasping—clawing at his arms and undoubtedly leaving raised and red scratches. And he was still crying. He still couldn't figure out why. He didn't know if it was the withdrawal, or if it was because maybe his emotions were finally catching up with the rest of his life. How did he turn himself into this? He was Blaine Anderson, open and proudly gay boy who loved theatre and bowties and cardigans. Who knew all the words to every Disney song and who could watch musicals all day on the couch with just a tub of ice cream. He wasn't supposed to be this broken shell of a person who couldn't even get himself off the floor because he didn't have the help of a needle to shove in his arm and make him feel human.

            He needed Kurt. He needed his beautiful eyes and loving fingers and gentle words. He needed to touch him and feel him and hold him and be alive.

            It was probably around noon that Christian finally showed up. Not that Blaine would know what time it was in the first place. He felt like he'd been on the floor forever. The idea of moving even an inch in any direction made him want to be sick.

            “Blaine?” And how dare he sound as if he were concerned, as if he actually cared. He didn't care. If he cared than he would help.

            “'fuck do you want?” Blaine hissed, curling himself impossibly tighter and making a feeble attempt to shift away from his quickly approaching roommate.

            “Are you okay?” His voice was so fucking loud that Blaine wanted nothing more than to literally saw out his ears. A burning hot hand touched his bare shoulder and he yelped, causing it to disappear just as quickly. “Blaine, you're freezing.”

            “No I'm not, I'm fine.”

            “Can you move?”

            “No.”

            “Then you're not fine.”

            “Fuck off.” Blaine cracked open an eye, glaring up at Christian as best as he could from both the angle and elevation. He didn't need him, he needed Kurt. Not some dickhead who thought he could save the planet. Even though, come to think of it, that was kind of what Kurt was, too.

            “I came to talk to you, actually. I have a proposition but now, looking at the state you're in, I doubt it'll be possible.” Blaine stayed quiet, hoping that his silence would portray his pleading for Christian to just go. “Rachel is having a Christmas party and she wants me to go. And considering I have to watch you, that means you kind of have to come, too.”

            “When is it?” Even entertaining the idea of getting off the floor at this point was sickening and made Blaine want to throw up.

            “The twenty-fourth. Do you think you'll be functional in three days?”

            “If you give me marijuana and a bottle of vodka, maybe.” Even the idea of alcohol made him feel sick, which was surprising in itself.

            “You can't just get off one drug and jump to another.”

            “You're making me cut this like cold turkey, I can do whatever the fuck I want to.”

            “If I get you something to take off the edge, will you come? I want to see Rachel.” Even the idea of getting something into his system made everything feel just that much better. When Blaine opened an eye, Christian looked nervous. His fingers were twined together and he shifted slightly on his feet, gaze flitting briefly to Blaine and then away.

            “Yes, yes. God yes.”

            Blaine didn't know where Christian got the drugs, and frankly he didn't really care. He had been shaking so bad with need that his roommate had to give him the shot, which he obviously wasn't pleased with doing. That just went to show how much he wanted to go to this stupid party.

            Blaine slumped onto the couch, curling his feet up next to him and eyeing the dark television. He felt better, that was for sure; but whether or not he felt good was hard to determine. The sandwich Christian made for him was promptly thrown back up and his forearms literally itched for another hit. Blaine stretched his arm out in front of him, laying his elbow against the armrest and letting his eyes slowly trace over the lines that marked up his once clean skin. He almost hated them. No, he did hate them. He hated that he went to such a stupid length just to make himself feel good when all he was doing was fucking things up even worse.

            He hated that he gave into such a horrible way of coping when he promised himself that he wouldn't drop to that level because he was strong enough that he didn't need to hurt himself. He was a complete and utter failure to every letter of the word.

            Blaine squeezed his eyes closed, drawing in a slow breath and running the tips of his fingers over the literal tally marks marking up the soft skin of his forearm. Most of them that floated just off the heel of his hand were faded out; but the higher he went, the more obviously severe they became.

            The first time he cut himself, it was a stupid accident. It was probably around six months since Kurt had left and Blaine was chopping carrots for stew. He turned to drop them in the pot with the wicked notion that he'd be able to hold the knife at the same time. Needless to say, he wasn't able to do it. It was actually a rather small cut; maybe half an inch long on the outside of his wrist.

            He thought nothing of it, cursing and swearing and rushing to get the wash cloth before he dripped blood all over the rest of the food still on the counter. After he cleaned it up and actually looked at it, everything went downhill.

            Blaine found out that he liked the way it looked. He liked the imperfection, the flaw in the seamless skin. He liked the look of the bright scarlet against his olive complexion. And from there forward, he was fucked.

            The second time was actually the first time he did it with intent. His father was out on a business meeting but not before smashing the coffee pot against the counter and threatening Blaine with the shards. He knew something had to be stopped, that he really shouldn't be living like this and maybe he should actually heed Kurt's words.

            Except the idea of listening to the subject of his nightmares made his stomach twist. There was no way he would let him win, no way that Blaine would lose to Kurt. No way that he would tell the Police and they would take away his father and he'd have to admit that Kurt was right all along; that he'd lost him for nothing.

            Blaine went digging for the box that was buried in his closet behind shoeboxes. And after looking at the sparkling slivers of broken memories, he knew what he had to do.

            He wished he didn't. He wished he'd never slipped while cooking because that just opened up a door of fuckery that he wished he never had to deal with in the first place.

            Blaine opened his eyes, looking almost sadly down at his still extended arm and the gradient of scars ranging from old and faded, to middle-aged and silver, and to new and pink. He should have been stronger.

            The next few days were a haze of occasional needles, feeling a little better, and the toilet bowl. Food was still a definite no. It didn't matter what he tried to eat, it never wanted to stay down. Blaine's bed sheets were also going through a serious affair with the washing machine as the sweat he produced left them soaked nightly. He still had a headache and if he moved too quickly, he'd lose balance and crash into the wall. Christian was around more often than not; tending to Blaine's temperature, changing sheets, supplying Advil and glasses of water to keep him hydrated.

            A lot of the time Blaine just cried for no reason. He'd curl up on the bathroom floor, hugging his knees to his chest and just cry. Christian usually sat with him, offering boxes of Kleenex and a warm embrace if he needed it; which he usually did. Blaine really never gave Christian enough credit. While he was bitching and groaning about his friend being an asshole and calling him rude names, Christian never left his side. It was refreshing to know that he wasn't going anywhere.

            “Blaine, can you please make yourself presentable? I don't think a Christmas party is boxers attire.” Christian was in his bedroom, probably fixing his outfit for the three hundredth time in half an hour.

            “What the hell am I supposed to wear? I don't have a suit. And even if I did, I definitely wouldn't be wearing it.” Blaine spun slightly on the island stool, realizing afterwards what a bad idea it was when the room tilted dangerously.

            “Yes you do have a suit, I've seen it. And I wouldn't let you wear it anyways; it's far too nice for you to throw up on.”

            “Thank you for the moral support, dick weed.” Blaine slid off the seat, half-wobbling down the hallway and stopping in Christian's doorway. “Stop fucking playing with the tie and come here.” Christian shot him a half-hearted glare before moving over to stand in front of Blaine.

            “You really don't know how to tie a bowtie, do you?” He gave the open laptop on the bed a critical look, raising an eyebrow at the step-by-step guide.

            “And you can?” Christian scoffed, rolling his eyes up towards the ceiling and putting his hands on his hips in a manner that was decidedly very not straight of him.

            “As a matter of fact, yes, I can.” He slid the strip of fabric out of Christian's collar, wrapping it instead behind his own neck before setting to work with it. The look he was given was bordering on hilarious; the way his roommate's eyes almost seemed to bug out of his head and his mouth literally popped open. “Tada.” Blaine gave a little pose, sweeping his hand in a presentable gesture over the perfect little bow.

            “How did—“

            “Years of practice, my friend.” He tugged it loose, slinging it through Christian's collar once more and setting to work with tying it for him. “There you go. Now you'll definitely be able to wiggle your way into Ms. Berry's animal sweaters.” Blaine ran his palms over the lapels of his roommate's vest before spinning and heading back out the door.

            “That was not my intention!”

            “Yes it was, don't lie. You haven't gotten laid for probably around a year. A man has needs, Christian.” Blaine shot a grin over his shoulder, taking in his friend's pink face with relish.

            In the end, Blaine settled for something simple. Someone said something about Kurt being back in Ohio with his family. Hopefully things would stay that way, if it was true. He chose green skinny jeans that had been neglected for an immeasurable amount of time in the bottom of his dresser, a white button-up with a red cardigan and, just because he was surprisingly in the mood, the bowtie that Rachel had given him so many years ago at Christmas; the one with the little trees on it.

            He felt good for the first time in awhile. He actually entertained the idea of having a conversation with Rachel. Everything without the thought of Kurt in the mixture felt pretty damn awesome. As he left his room, shoes in hand, the look Christian gave him as he literally floated into the living room made him smile.

            “You were in there for maybe a quarter of the time that I was getting ready and you already look better,” he pouted, crossing his arms and shoving out his lower lip in an overdramatic action.

            “Oh please, you just look like a straight man. I,” Blaine gave a sweep of his arms, over-indicating the jeans hugging his legs, “obviously do not. Although my ass does look great.” He gave a wiggle of his eyebrows at Christian's laugh.

            The idea of the subway was ultimately a bad one, so they fought to hail a taxi; Christian almost tripping several times over his own feet and nearly throwing the present he bought for Rachel into the slush.

            “How the fuck are you so uncoordinated?” Blaine snatched the bag from his friend before he did actually drop it, stepping back from the curb to let Christian get them a car instead.

            “Because we can't all be graceful swans like you,” he growled, clearly refraining from shouting in success when a taxi pulled up.

            The building was intimidating, that was one thing. It was, well, huge. Blaine didn't like the idea of an elevator, but stairs weren't appealing either.

            “How the fuck does she even live here? It's so—“

            “Big?” Christian turned to look at him when they stopped outside the lift, quirking an eyebrow.

            “Yes,” Blaine mumbled, dropping his eyes to the steel doors as they parted and a group of people flooded off.

            “She's a go big or go home kind of person. Shouldn't you know that?”

            “Well, yeah. But I was hoping that maybe that attitude would ebb away with time.” Blaine followed Christian into the elevator, trying to not visibly wince when he pushed the button for the top floor.

            “If anything, she's gotten even bigger.”

            “Joy to the world,” he hissed, leaning back against the wall of the box.

            Everything was green and red and loud. There were lights bouncing off the walls and a heavy bass that definitely should not ever be associated with Christmas. There were countless people mingling in the center of the room and, much to Blaine's delight, no Kurt to be seen. Rachel appeared almost immediately, squealing in such a high register that it probably could have exploded some eardrums. She hugged them both; Christian first where it was accompanied with a kiss, and then Blaine, her face softening immediately as she wrapped him up in her arms and breathed a thank you against his neck. As much as he hated to admit it, it felt good.

            Blaine also didn't see anybody that he knew, which was a relief all on its own. Although soon enough, the bar enticed him over. He leaned against the counter, swirling his drink in his hand and watching the ice tumble around the glass. Rachel always sucked in the alcohol department, but the scotch was surprisingly okay. The golden liquid was calming, little bubbles rising and breaking the perfect image in such a delicate way that Blaine couldn't help but get lost in it.

            The lights, although fascinating in their play off the walls, seemed to be missing something. The room of people was so full except so definitely empty. There needed to be smoke. There needed to be something more. And as Blaine turned back towards the cabinets and away from the people hoarded around the place, he had the sudden urge to be the one to smoke it up. To get just a group of willing people and find someone with a bong and just sit in the corner of the room and just get so high that instead of just feeling the music in his chest, he'd be able to feel it everywhere.

            It was the one thing that enticed him into drugs in the first place; he definitely didn't start with heroin.

            It was actually at a Warblers party that he was first introduced. Blaine was probably sixteen because it was definitely before he met Kurt. It was all fun and games; they ate pizza, played video games, and sang stupid karaoke songs that basically nobody knew the words to.

            It was his first party with the Warblers, actually. Wes had pulled him aside and told him something along the lines of ‘what happens at the party, stays at the party', and Blaine thought nothing of it, just that some of the guys might get drunk or something and kiss someone else. That was what normally happened at parties, wasn't it?

            Except when Blaine showed up, there was no alcohol in sight, just stretching the confusion ever-further. Thad disappeared for a little while, and when he asked, David assured him that he'd be back soon. And when he did eventually return, it was with something that took Blaine by surprise. It was a bong, and as cliché as it was, it was in the shape of a bird; wings open but still curled around its body and head tilted upward with a beak that actually ended up being the neck of the device, curling open to reveal a perfectly smooth and delicately rounded tunnel. It was beautiful.

            Everybody seemed to know what they were doing, gathering into a circle in the middle of the room, so Blaine followed along. Wes kept shooting him odd glances when he dropped down beside him, as if he was calculating how well he was doing with it all. And as it turned out, he did insanely well.

            He felt like maybe if he tried hard enough, he could fly. That he'd be able to jump and just take off. He felt, well, high. The music was back up and people were moving again except now the room was filled with smoke that curled high through the air and seemed to twist around his brain. He could feel the music everywhere; from his ears all the way to the very tips of his fingers. It was almost as if he could feel it. Feel the sound waves coursing through the air and twisting just like the smoke around his head. God, he felt alive.

            He wanted that feeling again. He wanted the feeling of being swept off his feet by something other than another person. He wanted that feeling of living and breathing and soaring. Maybe if he believed it hard enough, he could feel it. He could already feel the tendrils of it licking at the edges of his mind and he felt so alive.

            Blaine set his drink on the counter, ready to go dance with some stranger and probably take him home without Rachel knowing. Except there was someone in his way, and it was Kurt.

            “Hi.”