Before he can even realise it, Blaine is upstairs, standing in for the unconscious Hispanic - Santana. He is on a ladder, in front of a wooden mountain, listening to Rachel belting out the lyrics to a song that sounds pretty horrible.

He gazes at the strangers that are with him in the room, and probably already consider themselves as his friends. He has found out that the voice he had heard before belongs to Artie, a guy in a wheelchair, whose glasses and clothes make him look as the biggest of nerds. He shakes his head in frustration, and is holding the script so tight in his hands that his fingers are shaking. He doesn't look pleased, at all.

The black girl - her name is Mercedes - finally finds the courage to stop the torture.

"Oh hell to the no! Stop it!" she bursts out, while Rachel turns to stare at her, eyes wide with outrage.

"How do you dare-

"Rachel, Mercedes is right. This is horrible. You're ruining my play! Why did you even change the lyrics to the song?"

"Because" she explains, putting a hand on her hip, "the lyrics you wrote are meaningless and have no feeling. It looks like they've been written by some kind of heartless automat - don't take it personally, Artie"

Rachel really doesn't really know the meaning of the word 'tactful', does she? Blaine thinks, crossing his arms.

"Oh well, you're irritating and everybody hates you, but don't take that personally" he snaps.

Ouch. Blaine really doesn't like where this is going. He tries to open his mouth to stop the argument before it becomes a fight, but Rachel, whose mouth is hanging open, precedes him.

"How could you!"

"Your version of the song was really awful, Rachel" says Tina, the Asian woman, and then turns to the only other man in the room, who still seems really angry, "But Artie, I don't think a nun would ever sing 'the hills animate with the twinkling tunes of illusion' to some mountains". She looks so sorry, as she speaks, that it almost breaks Blaine's heart.

"Yeah! It should be something more like 'The hills' sound makes my heart pound, as I go oh-oh-oh!"

"That's enough, I'm leaving."

A door bangs.

"Artie, please!"

"That thing before sounded too ghetto even for you, Mercedes"

"Oh yeah? Find something better then, Barbra!"

"I sure can!"

Then everybody starts shouting and screaming and singing and Mercedes looks like she's seriously going to beat up Rachel, and Blaine feels his head spin in all this confusion. Are these guys always like this? God, how can anyone evenbe so loud? The strict severity of his family and the peaceful days in his high school, the Dalton Academy, have never seemed more distant to him: he had been raised to be... quiet. And calm. And he had never, ever met someone like these people who are going on fighting like it was a matter of life or death.

Suddenly an idea flashes through his mind, and it sounds so perfect and right that he just has to say it.

He is a songwriter, after all.

"The hills-" he starts, but no one seems to listen. "The hills-" he tries again, waving his arms in order to get more attention, but Mercedes, Rachel and Tina just keep shouting and shouting and shouting-

"The hills are alive with the sound of music!" he belts out, his voice clear and perfect due to years and years as leader of the school choir.

Instantly, the room falls silent. Tina, Mercedes and Rachel just stare at him and at each other, without being able to say a word.

The door of the attic suddenly flings open and Artie, who stormed out during the argument, gets back in again, his eyes shining in enthusiasm. "The hills are alive with the sound of music. I love it. I love it!" he declares, waving the script in his hand.

"The hills..."

"Are alive..."

"With the sound of music!" sing the three girls, while Tina plays the piano.

"It fits perfectly!" she cries out.

Blaine's face lights up with a smile. "With songs they have sung for a thousand years" he sings again, climbing down from the ladder while staring right in her eyes. He looks at his new friends, his smile full of expectation, waiting for some kind of feedback.

Artie lowers his head, and raises both his hands. "This is genius. Genius! Great job" he praises him, before starting clapping. The women join him right after, and Blaine bows to the applause.

"You two should write the music together" Artie suggests, talking to Tina. She nods, before turning to Blaine.

"Would you do that, Blaine?"

Would you do that, Blaine?

Write the music together.

It fits perfectly!

This is genius. Genius!

Would you do that, Blaine?

This words start echoing in his head like a confused melody he doesn't know how to stop. Would you do that, Blaine?Oh, he positively would. Definitely would. Yes, yes, yes he does! Come on, Blaine, you can say it. It's just a simple word, 'yes'. It's not difficult. So why isn't it coming out of your lips? You're dying to do it, Blaine, and you know it. Come on already, just say it!

"Oh, well, I don't kno-

"Artie, Ryerson will never agree with this! I mean, have you ever written a play before, Blaine?"

A sentence. A simple sentence, just come out from Mercedes' lips, and the world seem to crash right on Blaine's newborn castle of joy.

Damn it.

"No" he mouths, slowly. He seriously feels like he's about to cry.

Goodbye, dreams of success. Goodbye, glorious future...

"Come on, Mercedes!" Rachel complains. Suddenly, the girls and Artie are in a circle, excluding him, and Rachel is speaking again, loud enough for him to hear. "The hills are alive with the sound of music. It's perfect! Almost as good as mine, I'd say. With Blaine writing the lyrics, we could create the bohemian revolutionary show we always dreamt of!"

"I thought that the bohemian revolutionary show of our generation was Rent"

"Of course, Tina, but we could do better, thanks to Blaine's talent and mine - mostly mine, though"

Mercedes still doesn't seem convinced. "But how can we convince Sandy, girl? He will never agree to finance a play written by someone who's not a professional!"

Rachel shakes her head, reaching the woman's shoulder with a hand. "Believe you me, Sandy will agree with anything which is done by a good-looking guy, and Blaine is definitely cute enough. And besides-

Rachel is about to say something, but suddenly stops. She seems to realise something she hadn't thought about before, and her eyes open wide, as she whispers a single name.

"Kurt."

"I'm sorry?" Mercedes almost squeaks.

"He's perfect!" Rachel shouts, as she explains her plan. "We will dress Blaine as a gentleman, and pretend he's a famous English writer! When Kurt hears his modern lyrics, he will most definitely be astounded by such a huge talent and will insist with Sandy that Blaine writes the play!"

"Rachel, I'm not sure about this. I mean, he doesn't even sound English-

"Oh, stop it! The boy has talent" Artie jumps in the argument, moving next to Blaine and smacking a hand right on his butt. The man must definitely look uncomfortable about it, because the girls start laughing out loud as he feels his cheeks burn in embarrassment.

"Nothing funny. I just like talent" Artie snaps straight after quickly moving his hand back on his lap. He shrugs. "I can't reach your shoulders, you know?", he complains.

"Rachel, we don't even know if he's gay!"

Blaine stares at Mercedes. What is the problem with he-

Wait, what?

Why do they have to know if he's gay?

"Oh, he doesn't have to be! He'll just pretend. We just have to get him to the Moulin Rose."

Blaine feels his heart stop, jump somewhere in his throat, sink into his stomach and then go back into his chest.

The Moulin Rose.

He had heard of the Moulin Rose from a friend of his, Sebastian Smythe, who called it once "the most glamorous dancehall in the whole Big Apple".

But as far as he knows, and people have told him, it's not just a dancehall and a nightclub.

It's a bordello, too.

A gay bordello.

Somewhere where young men sell their bodies to rich, heartless, lustful human beings, who still dare to call themselves gentlemen, even thought they're nothing more than animals.

A place like that... where humans are given in exchange for money... Blaine can't even think about going there. He just can't.

He doesn't care about fame and glory and his dreams anymore. He wants nothing to do with a place like this.

"I can't write the show!" he cries out, turning away and crossing his arms nervously.

Not even a second later, Rachel's hand is on his shoulder. "Why not?" she asks, in a worried voice.

Damn it. He has to make up something to refuse, and he has to make it up quickly. "I don't-" he babbles, without knowing what to say, "I don't even know if I can write something like that!"

"What?"

Blaine bites his lip, staring at his new friends' faces, confused by the shock he can see in their eyes. Has he just said something that stupid?

Suddenly everybody is surrounding him, and he feels suffocating. "Do you believe in beauty?" Artie asks, looking confused.

"Yes" Blaine answers immediately.

"Freedom?" is Mercedes' question.

"Of cours-

"Truth?"

"Yes!"

"Love?"

Blaine turns his honey eyes to Rachel who has just spoken; looking at her as if he has just seen something so beautiful it can't be described by words.

"Love? Love?" he asks, staring at her, "Above all things, I believe in love. Love is like oxygen. Love is a many-splendored thing; love lifts us up where we belong, all you need is love!" he exclaims.

The most beautiful and bright of all smiles lights up his face, and his eyes sparkle in joy. Love. Love. The sound alone of the word is enough to lift his heart up, a thousand feet high, as his heart starts beating faster and faster.

He doesn't care about the nightclub, the boys who work there, or his father's disappointed voice that starts echoing at the back of his head. He finally has the chance to follow and pursue his dream, andnothing will stop him. Most definitely not a bordello.

"You can't fool us! The play is already in your heart and you're dying to let it out!" Artie finally declares, smiling broadly at him. Then he turns to a drawer to pull out of it a bottle of a green drink which Blaine doesn't recognize, and pours it in a glass, before handing it to him.

The young man's look is doubtful as he accepts the glass and takes a sip, under the inquisitive stares of the whole group's eyes.

God, it hurts.

He hasn't even drunk it properly and his mouth, tongue and throat are already burning.

He doesn't like it- at all.

But he just can't disappoint his friends and fall short of their expectations, so he smiles, raises his glass, and shouts out loud, "Tastes good!"

Rachel, Artie, Mercedes and Tina break up in laughter and start cheering, drinking and singing as if they were already drunk.

In the meanwhile, Santana wakes up, holding her head with a hand, looking puzzled.

"What the hell is happ-

"Here, Santana, take this", Rachel says with a gentle smile, handing her the green liquor.

Santana stares at the bottle. "Oh. Alcohol", she grins, licking her lips and taking the bottle, "Well, I don't know what the hell is happening, but I definitely like it. Cheers!"

Blaine smiles widely, emptying the cup again, as his head starts feeling lighter and lighter.

He definitely likes it too.

When Blaine opens his eyes, he has no idea of where he his, and how he got there. He lifts his head, slowly, and tries to sit up. He holds his head with a hand, because it feels like it suddenly weighs tons, and the room is spinning around him, and since when does he have four legs?

He tries to shake his head, to clear his own thoughts, but it just gets worse. It's like thousands of knives stabbed him where he thinks his eyes and temples are - he's not that sure, though.

The moment he understands he's about to puke, he crawls heavily to what really looks like a basket, and throws up probably everything he's ever eaten in his life.

He crumples on the floor again, grabbing the basket and cleaning his mouth with it - somewhere in his terribly confused mind, he realises it's actually made of material.

He groans, in some kind of dying-animal way, trying to figure out what was going on before he fell asleep or passed out or whatever happened last night.

Well then. He was trying to write a love song, and then an unconscious woman fell from the roof, and another woman went on talking and talking and talking and then he was practising for a play. That he remembers very well.

Then everybody was shouting and he remembers singing and accepting to write the show.

And then everything turns black and green and purple in his mind and he can't remember a thing.

With a childish whine he throws up again, and slowly things start becoming clearer - at least, he can think properly now.

Fear begins to take up his mind, as he tries to figure out what had happened.

Did they drug him? Did-did they do something bad to him? Oh my God, and if they raped him?

Some kind of miracle is probably happening, because the world is spinning a little slower now - he manages to sit straight, and looks around.

Artie probably fell from his wheelchair, because he is now lying on the floor, his glasses a few feet from his face. Mercedes and Tina are sleeping on the couch, their heads one against the other, surrounded by empty bottles. Rachel lies on both of their laps.

What the hell happened last night?

He hears steps getting closer to him - steps? They're not steps. Steps aren't supposed to be so loud. It has to be a hammer banging on his head or something.

He looks up: Santana is there, a glass of water in her hand and a grin on her face.

"That was Mercedes' favourite hat. She's going to kill you the moment she wakes up", she informs him, gazing at the bask- oh. It's not a basket, Blaine suddenly realises. It's a ha-

Oh God.

He's screwed.

"Here, take this", she says, handing him the cup. Blaine stares at it as if he has just seen a glimpse of heaven, and rewards the woman with a thankful smile.

"First time you got drunk, uh?" she asks as he drinks.

Oh. So that was it. He'd just got drunk. Simple as that.

He nods, sighing with relief, handing her again the empty glass.

He feels so, so much better now.

She smirks, and Blaine should probably be scared of that smile, but she has been so nice, how could she do anything mean?

"So... You're quite a good kisser, you know, kid?" she states, with nonchalance, laying the glass on a drawer next to her.

Blaine almost chokes, as he squeaks: "Excuse me?"

Actually, he remembers kissing someone.

Or better, making out with someone.

It's a memory that has just come to his mind. It's blurred, sure - but it's most definitely a memory.

She shrugs. "Yeah, pretty face. You kissed me. And it would have been hot, too, if you hadn't kissed Wheelchair Freak straight after"

"What?"

Blaine's eyes are wide, and his mouth hangs open.

The- the one he was making out with was Artie?

That's not possible.

It literally can't be possible.

She has to be kidding.

"I'm kidding!" Santana can't hold it any longer, and bursts into laughter.

Oh thank Go-

"Yeah, you kissed just Artie, and for several, uncomfortable minutes, too. Almost as uncomfortable as looking at Gayberry making out with her husband, I must say."

Blaine stares at her, eyes wide in shock, and his jaw has probably hit the floor by now.

He has no idea of who Gayberry is, but he really doesn't care.

Because he's going to die.

Right now, he's going to jump out of the window and kill himself.

"Hey, Dopey the Dwarf, can't you even tell a joke from the truth? I was just pulling your short, hobbitish leg, for Christ's sake!" she sighs, offering him her hand and helping him to stand.

Blaine is so relieved that her words can't even offend him. He still feels quite dizzy, but he definitely is kind of okay know, and knowing that he actually hasn't kissed Artie or Santana or anyone else makes him feel a lot better.

Maybe he had just made out with a cushion or something.

"Actually, Dopey, you made out with Rachel last night, and this isn't a joke. I would never make a joke about kissing that thing... The thought alone is making me want to throw up."

Santana's face is disgusted, but he couldn't care less: right now he just wants to bang his head against the wall until he falls unconscious again, because this woman his driving him crazy.

He knows he can't do anything about it, though.

"Blaine", he sighs, shaking his head.

"I'm sorry?"

"I'm Blaine" he states.

"Oh no, you're not, shortie, you're Dopey. You're just still really confused because of all that drinking, but I swear it gets better! Well then, do you want something to eat?" she asks, a big grin lighting up her face.

Blaine lets out another, resigned sigh, and nods. "Yes, please."

Somehow, he has the feeling that starting from today, Santana won't call him by his real name ever again.