“Oh, Rocky!” Frank’s voice was flat; perfectly in time, but the tone wasn’t there, that essential cockiness he had to wield, even when he didn’t want to. The heart of him had faded, that undercurrent of seamless confidence that sizzled under his skin in every performance he gave.

Every performance but this one.

For the first time ever, Blaine watched helplessly as his Frank slipped away.

He closed his eyes in a free moment, remembering the bones in his arms, flexing the muscle, reminding himself in repeating, desperate, silent fires of nerve and trembling sinew that he couldn’t reach out to hold him.

In his chest his heartbeat stuttered, and he tried endlessly to recall a time when he didn’t simply ache for him.

Blaine sang along to the track, letting the callbacks wash over him like old familiar waves, just white noise against the music and the hours that dragged by disguised as minutes.

Every time Rocky opened his mouth, every look and every leer made Blaine shiver with cold, sharp hatred, knuckles white, fists clenching at his sides to the point of pain.

The moment those hands were on Frank, Blaine felt the growl rise in his throat. It shattered quietly as he choked it back down, bubbling with a white-hot rage he’d never experienced before in his life.

He could feel Frank’s hesitance on every gesture, every line, and he knew how violently his skin would be crawling as he was forced to play up the part. “In just seven days, (and eight nights, the audience goaded them, laughing) I can make you a man.”

The Transylvanians’ voices taunted him viciously from side stage, mocking like they knew. Frank and Rocky, rah-rah-rah.

It took everything in Blaine’s power not to scream.

By the time they reached Floorshow he was struggling to speak his lines, eyes fixed on Rocky even while Columbia sang her piece. A tiny, warm hand slipped into his own and squeezed gently, and he thanked any deity that would listen at that moment for the fact that Jan was beside him.

When the final cheers went up, the roar of the audience felt like a tidal, and he tried not to flinch away from it as he waited for the crash.

Trixie bowed, accepting flowers and laughing while Riff shouted out the news of the company’s 100th show. “And here’s to many more.”

Blaine barely heard them.

His gaze flicked between Rocky and Frank, and over to the metal stairs, body jerking desperately with the need to run. That creeping, twisting voice in his head reared up again, reminding him – as soon as it was over, he could run. He could fly across that stage and down those steps. He could get away from this moment, and everything it meant.

The fight or flight response, his father had told him, once upon a time, is what truly defines a man.

He caught himself staring at Frank, at the rise and fall of his chest, the flash of his throat as he breathed; he was trembling, almost imperceptibly, given away by the sheen of sweat on his skin that caught in the spotlight.

Blaine felt calm all at once, simply watching, and he knew in a deafening rush of clarity exactly what Magenta had meant. What it was, when you missed someone so badly you felt the anguish of their absence in your bones, the pain that outweighed the hard-wired instinct of flight.

He closed his eyes.

Time to stop running.

When he opened them again, the haze washed away, the muffled glass sounds bleeding into the crisp and clear cacophony of the crowd. Frank met his eyes, and held them.

And Blaine knew.

I could never say goodbye to you.

As the lights went down he felt the powerful, invisible pull to the side-stage, and the cast clattered down the metal stairs with him in a cramped and frenzied outpour of shouts and screams. Between half of them thumping Trixie on the back and picking her up in congratulations, and the other half already stripping out of costume or bee-lining for the alcohol, Blaine had to duck and side-step too often to get a decent view.

He broke free of the pack of bodies as quickly as he could, stretching and leaning to find Frank’s face in the crowd. Brow knitting tightly in panic, he turned in half-circles, searching desperately and almost tripping over his own feet.

A hand on his arm, gripping tight and tugging him mercilessly towards the bathroom door, had him stumbling in heels and scraping the ground with his knees. He managed to pick himself up, staggering the last few steps as Magenta dragged him through and all but threw him against the tiled wall.

“What the FUCK happened?” she yelled.

He stared at her, eyes wide in shock, and before he had a chance to even ponder how she knew, he noticed the shaking of her hands. Please don’t hurt him, she’d said earlier.

And she’d just watched Frank all but fall to pieces on stage.

Blaine was breathing too hard, adrenaline firing in his veins as he gestured both hands helplessly in the air. “Rocky,” he growled back, voice tapering into a frustrated whine. “Fucking… Rocky, is what happened.”

Madge froze, searching his face carefully. “What did he do?”

“He walked in on us, he saw…” Blaine tried to steady his breathing. His voice was barely above a terrified whisper; “Frank … he closed off. He told me not to touch him.”

Her face softened instantly, brow gathering in sympathy. “Oh, god.”

“Where is he?” Blaine asked, trying to shift past her. “I have to find him, please tell me he’s still here.”

“He took off the second he got off stage, I think, he and Jan were together. I don’t know – I thought he’d stay, for Trix. But if Rocky-”

“I know.” Blaine’s entire body tensed, skin tightening over muscle and veins as he tugged viciously at the side of his corset, pulling it off and dumping it by the sink. He moved as fast as he could, swinging his usual stall open as he tore down his fishnets and kicked off both heels, slipping his jeans from the door hook and pulling them on frantically.

“Brads.” Her voice was low, full of warning and worry as she watched him. “What are you doing?”

“Getting strike three,” he said darkly as he passed her, heading for the door.

She caught his arm with both hands, tugging back roughly, but he only stopped still. Her eyes widened at the shift; the man she’d dragged into the room with one arm a moment ago was now coiled tight, too strong to move.

“It’s not worth getting kicked out over,” she insisted, her voice almost pleading. “You love it here. Don’t you dare tell me that you don’t, because I see it in your face every time you’re singing on that damn stage. This is home, Brads. This is where we come to be us.”

He was silent, body radiating control.

“He’s not worth it.”

“Yes, he is,” he said calmly.

Madge stared at him, hands still clinging to his bicep. “Please. Rocky’s not worth sacrificing this.”

Blaine met her eyes. “I wasn’t talking about Rocky.”

Her hands slipped away in surprise. Against every instinct, she gave him a quick nod of approval.

He smiled at her gratefully and a little sadly, reaching up to brush his fingers over her cheekbone before he turned.

“I lost him once,” he told her, pushing the door open. “I’m not going to lose him again.”

On the other side the party was in full swing, plastic cups in every hand and bottles clinking together, playing percussion under the excited chattering buzz. He searched the room for a telltale shock of blond hair, but there was none. His gaze landed on Riff and Columbia by the stage curtain, and he moved over to them quickly with Madge at his heels.

“Has anybody seen Rocky?”

Riff’s head swivelled on his neck as he looked up, unsteady and glassy-eyed. Well that didn’t take long, Blaine thought.

“Oh, yah,” he said, waving his cup to the corridor entrance. “He went down to the dressing rooms, something about catching up with Frankie.”

Without a word, Blaine tore off in a sprint.

“What’s happening?” Jan called from behind him. “Where’s Brad going?”

Madge pulled her along by the hand, heels clattering across linoleum as they tried to catch up.

It was the third room on the left. The same room, he realised with a sick twinge in his gut, that he and Frank had been in together only hours before.

Suddenly, too many things were happening far too quickly, and it took a moment for his mind to catch up. All the sounds had struck in chorus; Frank’s broken cry, the crash, and the buzz, a strange ticking noise and the thump of a body falling.

Frank was standing, breathless, his brow set in a dark glare and his hands gripping the dresser behind him. And somehow, there was a twitching, writhing mass of a man on the floor.

Blaine tried to register what he’d just seen and heard:

The door collision had been so loud when he pushed through it, splintering with a sickly crunch from the force of striking the wall. At the same time he’d seen them; seen Frank pressed against the broken dresser with Rocky all but draped on top of him, mouth bruising Frank’s lips painfully as he kept him still with a fistful of his hair.

Blaine flinched at the flash of too-recent memory, mind reeling as he tried to understand. The girls lingered in the doorway behind him, and then there was a third body coming to the door.

“What the hell is going on?” Trix demanded, surveying the room.

Frank glanced over at her, brow set in controlled anger. “He attacked me.”

Blaine looked back to the shivering mass of Rocky on the floor.

The other noise he’d heard, just after he burst into the room, what was it? Rocky had let go of Frank at the sound of the crashing door, and he’d turned around and then…

Electricity. Tik tik tik.

Mouth open, Blaine felt the pieces settle into place.

Frank was waiting for it. He knew it was coming; he even prepared himself. That’s why he’d found Jan after the show.

Blaine watched as Frank held the taser out to Jan, mouthing a silent thank you.

She winked at him, stepping over the now-still figure on the ground to take the taser with her free hand. With a quick glance down at Rocky, she laughed under her breath and promptly tipped her drink across his face, dropping the cup on his head. “Oops.”

“Jan,” Trixie scolded her.

With a shrug, Jan wrapped her arms around Frank’s waist, snuggling into his side. His mouth twitched into a barely-there smile as he squeezed her shoulder.

“He attacked you?” Trixie repeated seriously, eyeing Frank.

“I saw it,” Blaine said suddenly, coming back to himself. “He … he had him pinned. I saw it.” He let himself look at Frank, hesitant and shell-shocked.

Frank didn’t look back.

“So did I,” Jan piped up. “I saw it.”

“Me too,” Madge added with a firm nod.

Trixie glanced between the three of them and cast one final apologetic look to Frank before she reached out and tapped at Rocky’s head with her boot. “You hear me?”

“Hmmrph,” Rocky said, staring up at her dazedly from under vodka-soaked hair.

She bent over, enunciating carefully. “You’re fired, asshole.”

Madge grinned.

“About the taser,” Frank said slowly, catching Trixie’s eye. “I know about the strikes. I know you have to. It’s okay.”

Studying him for a long beat, Trixie sipped her drink and swallowed. “What taser?”

Frank’s eyes narrowed in confusion.

“I saw no taser,” Madge chimed in.

“Nope,” Jan added. “Me neither. Must be some kind of medical condition. Probably induced by being a raging asshat. He just seized up and fell down.”

“And pissed himself,” Madge added, nodding to Rocky’s damp gold shorts.

“And pissed himself,” Jan concluded with a smile.

Frank glanced between them, lips pressed tightly together in silent gratitude.

“We’ll clean up this mess,” Jan said, nudging at his side. “Go, go on.”

There was a tremor in Frank’s hands as he let go of her, and Blaine watched him carefully, fear and longing coiled tight like twin snakes around his ribcage.

“I’ll take him home,” he offered quietly.

Without looking up, Frank gave the smallest of nods and side-stepped around Rocky to get to the door.

Blaine followed in silence, barely breathing, voice caught in his throat with his heart.

He stopped when Frank did, two doors distance down the long hall. Without a word, Frank reached out and gathered his hand, leading him into the nearest room.

When they were both inside, Frank let go, keeping his face turned away. “Close the door.”

Blaine did as he was told, clicking the door shut as carefully as he could and leaning against it, waiting.

Frank’s body shook. Just once at first, and then again, and again, as he dissolved into uncontrollable, body shattering tears.

Blaine kept himself still against every instinct. If a heart could scream, he was sure his was.

“I know you- you said-” he managed over broken breaths. “You said you didn’t want me to touch you, but I-“

“Blaine,” he begged silently on a sob, and turned just in time to be caught up in Blaine’s arms as they grappled each other desperately and sank to the floor.

Holding him tight to his chest, Blaine pressed fingers into skin, into the gelled lines of his hair, whispering frantic apologies over and over. I’m sorry. Oh god, I’m so sorry.

“I’m alright,” Frank choked out, “I’ll be okay. It’s just. It’s too much like-”

“Shh.” Blaine pressed his mouth along Frank’s temple in tiny, soothing kisses; promises to make the pain go away, to hold him until he told him to let go.

When the tremors settled and Frank grew still in his arms, Blaine closed his eyes, brushing his cheek across Frank’s forehead and squeezing both arms around his body possessively. “I should have been there.”

“It’s not your fault,” Frank said, his voice wet and higher than before. “I knew it would happen. It worked out the best way it could have.”

“It still happened,” Blaine insisted.

“I …” Frank stopped before he could get the words out, shifting slightly and trying to build himself up to speak.

Blaine waited, hands stroking him soothingly through it.

“It’s not the first time,” Frank began slowly. “When I was in high school, there was this … jock. He used to like to torture me, throw me against lockers, in dumpsters. It went on for years,” he said, and Blaine listened in aching silence.

“When I was eighteen, I thought I was… brave,” he laughed wetly. “I was stronger, I worked out more. I had a plan. But he… he was so much bigger than me.”

Blaine’s eyes closed, and he pressed his mouth against Frank’s skin, already sure of what was coming.

“He held me against the locker when he kissed me. It hurt,” he said evenly, like he was telling any other story. “It’s not supposed to be like that. Your first kiss. It’s not supposed to be stolen.”

With a punctured breath, Blaine trailed his hand gently up and down Frank’s spine, the familiar caress they’d done so many times before, it now felt so intimate and so completely them that it almost took his breath away.

“When Rocky pinned me, I froze,” Frank confessed. “I was in that locker room all over again. I couldn’t stop it then, I couldn’t stop it now.”

“But you did,” Blaine insisted quietly. “You did stop it.”

Frank shook his head against Blaine’s chest. “Not fast enough. All this time I thought I’d changed. That’s … it’s why it’s so easy to be Frank. It’s powerful and safe and,” he let out a breath he’d been holding too long, “it’s freeing. Being somebody else, someone who never got hurt. But underneath all this, I’m just that kid. The one who went home covered in bruises for years while nobody noticed. And nobody ever understood.”

“I do,” Blaine breathed.

Beneath him Frank sniffed gently, pressing his head down into Blaine’s shoulder. “I don’t know if you can.”

Swallowing to wet his raw throat, Blaine shifted on his knees, pulling back so he could at Frank’s face. Eyes that were too bright and too beautiful for tears stared back at him, swollen and stained.

Blaine bit down on his bottom lip to keep himself from crying.

“I know … what it’s like,” he said shakily. “When I was fifteen I went to a school dance with another guy. I was out,” he nodded sharply. “He was just a friend, but he was out too, and he agreed to go with me. But … before we got there, these guys showed up and…”

Frank’s eyes widened in realisation.

“I was in hospital for weeks.” Blaine reached down, gathering Frank’s hand in his own gently and guiding it to the side of his head, threading joint fingers through his hair.

Frank gasped softly as he grazed over the scar. It was a long dash of twisted skin, thick enough to tell apart instantly. Blaine let his hand fall away, but Frank didn’t, lingering over the raised line of his scalp. The caress was slow, a smooth sweep of fingers lovingly gliding back and forth. Blaine let his eyes fall shut.

“You were coming for Rocky,” Frank realised aloud, his free hand pressing over Blaine’s bare chest, resting on his heart. “You were coming to fight.”

Blaine tipped his head just slightly in confirmation.

In a rush Frank rose to his knees, cradling Blaine’s head softly and pressing his lips into his hair, over the scar underneath.

Blaine shivered under the touch, and as Frank held him he felt the weight inside melt into relief. He breathed deep, caught in the blissful smell of corset leather, faded cologne and sweat across Frank’s chest.

“I need you to know,” Blaine said suddenly, voice cracking. He swept his hands up Frank’s sides, clinging to his waist. “I meant what I said. I meant every word.”

Frank rested his chin in Blaine’s hair, arm curled around his neck and fingers trailing over the sensitive skin behind his ear. “What you said?”

“I love you.”

He felt Frank’s breath draw in, the fingers behind his ear still soothing over his hair and down his jaw.

After a long pause, swaying in the silence and still holding on to each other, Frank pulled away and settled back onto his thighs. Huge blue eyes sought out Blaine’s, bright and unafraid. “I don’t want to be Frank anymore,” he whispered. “Not with you.”

Blaine felt his heart pound heavy in his chest.

“Okay,” he breathed.

Frank smiled softly, lifting Blaine’s hand and pressing a kiss to his knuckles.

“I want to go back to your house.”