Caged again, so trapped he could feel his skin burning, crawling with it. Tan forearms were marred by angry red streaks, gouges trying to tear the itch right out of the tissue. He could feel the cold sweat dripping from his pores. He could feel the accelerated beat of his heart, an erratic thrum, wild and dangerous. So scared, so fucking scared and guilty. He'd made a promise, a promise he wasn't sure he could keep for much longer.

It was just too hard; his vision swimming in and out of focus as he shook, barely managing to stay upright as he stumbled toward the kitchen. His stomach was twisting painfully as he fumbled for his wallet and made his way to the front door. Body lurching and mind cluttered and spinning he hesitated. I promised. But I can't.

His resolve shattered, he yanked open the door, palms slipping on the handle and staggered out, down the hall, down the stairs, out onto the street, turn left, first block, second block, turn right and the third door down. Unsteady feet carried him there, body propelled by that itch, that need to just make it stop, make it all just go away. His knock was barely there but Evan answered anyway, backlit by the bare light bulb hanging like a noose from the ceiling of his dingy backstreet place of business.

"You came back huh? Knew you would, pretty boy."

Blaine refused to look at him. He just thrust out a pale hand, clutching what little money he had. He didn't have enough for the amount he really needed but he took all he could get. He turned to leave but Evan grabbed his wrist before he could step back from the door frame.

"You know if you're looking for more pretty boy I'm sure you're familiar with our alternative method of payment," Blaine barely has time to flinch at the familiar name before he's slammed up against the door frame, Evan's rough and clammy hands coming to push painfully at his ribs from underneath his baggy sweater, "I'm sure you must be tight-" he crowded close and Blaine snapped his head to the side trying to escape the acrid stench of his breath against his cheek, "on cash."

Blaine felt bile clawing up his throat as he trembled in Evan's grasp. He felt sick. Violently so when he caught himself so desperate he considered getting on his knees for his fix. But he resisted, even if he had slipped he hadn't fallen that low, not yet, not again. He whispered his plea for release, his plea not to be used again and thanked a God he didn't believe in when Evan let go, and pushed him back onto the street with a loud "offer still stands for any future transactions Blainey." as the door was slammed shut behind him.

.oO0Oo.

He didn't know how he made it back without collapsing, in fact he barely remembered the journey back to his apartment at all but he went straight for the kitchen. He prepped what he had with shaking hands, desperation overpowering every other thought and feeling. Finally, finally he let his poison course through his veins, enveloping him in the familiar bittersweet nothingness. He slid to the tiled kitchen floor, eyes shut tight as he waited for a twinge of relief. But it never came.

.oO0Oo.

He heard the door to the locker room slam shut but he didn't flinch. He doesn't, not anymore. He stares blankly ahead, feels him pressing up behind him, dirtied hands pulling at his hips and narrow waist. He can smell stale sweat and cigarette smoke, even whiskey on his breath. He's asked a question, so vile he doesn't answer. Slam.

"Are you ready for me pretty boy? Such a pretty little slut."

He never answers. Never speaks, even if it means more bruises to hide. He just stills, waiting for the next blow, the next touch, the next insult, all the while praying that he'll survive again or maybe, that this time, he won't. He wishes he was anywhere but there, wishes that he had even a miniscule of control. But right now he doesn't. Not as Jake bites at his neck and thrusts against him as he just stands there, face bruised and cut from where it's repeatedly smashed against the locker vents.

When he's forced to turn around and ordered to his knees Blaine just blinks. He feels like he's seconds from breaking, small and so completely destroyed at only sixteen. He starts to feel tears trickling over his bloodied cheeks as he's pushed forcefully to the floor, crying out as his knees hit the hard tile with an agonizing crunch.

"Jake, please." He begs.

"Don't."

"You said you-" He can't say the words anymore, wonders if he ever will again.

"I gave you so much and now you-"

"And now I get to take." Blaine hangs his head as he hears Jake unzip his pants and drop them to just below the knee. Blaine cries, but doesn't resist further than his pleading. Even the begging stops when he's reminded why he's here, on his knees, on the filthy locker room floor. "I can hand you over to Tommy and Max if you'd prefer pretty boy, maybe a trip to the hospital will help you rethink things."

Blaine's head is jerked up roughly, clumsy fingers clenching around his jaw until it's forced painfully open. "You look so good with your lips wrapped round my cock Blainey, such a pretty boy."  Then Jake just uses him. Just takes. Everything. Every shred of Blaine that may have been left disappears; shatters.

When it's over Jake puts himself back together and leaves without giving Blaine a second glance. Blaine's alone, choking on sobs as he scrambles to a toilet to vomit. He's shaking and crying and he can't get rid of the taste. He hates himself, hates that he can't defend himself against them. He hates that he's weak. He hates that he's broken.