Chapter Six

Dear Rachel,

I miss you so much.

I know that statement is somewhat cliché, but it's true. I don't have any other way to explain my feelings, I'm not gifted like that. I don't have your way with words. You were the creative one. No. You are the creative one. Why am I writing about you as if you're -  -

I can't write it.

I know you're still here. Sam would have told me if you'd - gone. I still feel as if I've lost a part of myself, though. I lost you. You became a part of me, and now that you've gone I can't function in the same way. I put on the bravest of brave faces each day. I know that there are people in situations just like mine, and some even worse. But that doesn't stop me from being utterly miserable, not to mention angry. I just feel guilty for thinking like this. Lately, however, I've begun to realise that I shouldn't apologise for being human.

I'm just so frightened, Rachel. I'm frightened for you. I can hardly bear to imagine the things you're enduring right now, this very moment, whilst I sit in a sinfully huge apartment with a hot roaring fire, writing this letter to you. It makes me feel guilty all over again.

Santana has left now, too. Both my girls, gone. I only knew her for a short time, but we grew so close. As I stood there uselessly, watching them drag her away, I felt desperately sad. But soon I just became angry. Angry for what has happened to you, to Santana, and to all the others. I don't know exactly how many others there are, but I fear it may be hundreds.

Blaine is probably the closest friend I have left. He's wonderful. You'd like him, I'm sure. I hope that one day, the two of you will meet. And I long to meet Kurt after hearing so many good things. Kurt is Blaine's boyfriend - he's a homosexual. Well, they both are. Santana is also a homosexual. I can't believe we never talked about homosexuality before; I talk to Blaine and Santana - or I used to - and it's fascinating, Rachel, truly. They aren't all that different from you or I. Scratch that - they aren't different at all. Love is all the same.

That's not the only thing, though. Every day I remember something or discover something that I wish we'd been able to talk about. I loved talking to you. Lying on a roof and feeling your whisper-breath dance over my face as you shared your words, and in return I gave some quiet secrets. But everything was so simple then - so simple that it hurts to remember! What I'd give to have five minutes with you, anywhere, doing anything or everything or nothing, it wouldn't matter because you would be there and I would be there and that's all I'll ever truly want from this life.

Love, Jesse.

-

Blaine woke abruptly, finding himself in an unfamiliar bed, unable to remember how he got there. Then, seeing Sam stood by the door, he remembered everything. ‘Kurt,' he heard himself murmur.

Upon hearing Blaine's voice, Sam turned around. ‘You're awake,' he said, stating the obvious.

‘Kurt...where's Kurt?' Blaine found himself saying, somewhat incoherently.

‘It's all my fault, I got you panicked for no reason. He's fine, Blaine, I promise - well. Not fine exactly, but you know what I mean,' Sam said hastily, his eyes apologetic.

Blaine sighed with numb relief. ‘Wait...how...you're - you're certain?' he asked shakily. Sam nodded.

‘Positive. They gave me this week's list of names, and I always check under B, for Rachel Berry, L, for Santana Lopez, and H, for Kurt Hummel, in case there are any changes. So I flipped through to the H's and then I saw the name ‘Kurt' printed there. I got here as fast as I could to tell you, not even thinking to check properly. Turns out, it's some poor soul named Kurt Hamilton,' he explained.

‘So Kurt - as in my Kurt - he's safe? Well, as safe as he can be?' Blaine asked.

‘Still in that cell, down at the police station. I checked,' Sam clarified. There was a brief pause as Blaine let the relief - what little there was - sink in, before Sam spoke again. ‘I'm glad you're awake, but I have to go. There's a few things I need to do. I don't mean to be rude,' he said. Blaine nodded at the blonde man, thanking him. ‘Sorry for panicking you unnecessarily,' Sam apologised, turning and leaving before Blaine could refute his apology.

‘Are you alright?' came Jesse's voice from next to him. Blaine hadn't even noticed him there. He felt Jesse's comforting hand on his shoulder. As he nodded, and clasped the man's hand, Blaine looked around, realising that Jesse had carried him to the spare bed behind the bar, after he had fainted.

‘Sorry for fainting. And thank you for...this,' he said, gesturing to the bed.

‘It's nothing. I'm sure you'd do the same for me,' Jesse replied. Blaine considered.

‘Well. You are considerably taller than me. I don't think I could carry you,' he said, managing to smile a little.

‘You can do anything. The doubts are all in your head,' Jesse told Blaine softly. They shared a silent smile for a moment. Then Quinn entered, holding a plate of food.

‘You're awake!' she said brightly. ‘Here. I bought you some food. Even managed to nab a few eggs this morning,' she grinned, handing him a plateful of apple pancakes. Blaine's mouth watered.

‘Oh my god...I've not had real pancakes for years!' he exclaimed, taking a huge bite of the sweet dough. The other two laughed as Blaine chewed. The food slowly grew sour in his mouth as he realised that Quinn had most likely used up all her rations just to feed him. His tongue was weighed down as the pancakes turned to guilty cardboard, and yet he couldn't object. So he expressed gratitude instead, thanking her for her hospitality. ‘Also, I'm sorry for fainting,' he mumbled, a little embarrassed. She smiled gently.

‘Don't apologise. You had every right to react the way you did. I was a wreck when they took Beth,' she told him, sadness colouring her expression as she remembered the day her child was taken from her. She excused herself before the tears started.

‘Is she alright?' Jesse murmured, concerned.

‘None of us are alright,' Blaine answered bluntly, taking a sip of milk. Both fell silent for a while, the only sounds the scraping of cutlery on china.

‘When Brittany and I first came to Berlin, we bought apple pancakes and ate them on the side of the road,' Blaine said quietly. Jesse didn't say anything, listening to the memories. ‘They weren't particularly good pancakes, but to this day, they are the best ones I've ever tasted - because every mouthful was freedom,' he reminisced.

‘When did you first come here?' Jesse asked.

‘When I was fourteen. She was thirteen. We had no money, and no-one wanted to give us a job. But finally, long story short, we found some stability. It's no lavish lifestyle, but we get by and I'm grateful for that, knowing how things could have turned out. Still could,' Blaine explained. He toyed with his fork for a moment before handing the plate to Jesse. ‘I can't eat any more. Quinn gave me too many,' he said, not telling him the real reason.

‘You're sure?' Jesse asked, reluctant to take food from a boy who struggled to feed himself, when Jesse himself had never had to think twice about food. It was always there for him. Blaine nodded his consent and he ate some, finding that he was rather hungry. He'd been here all night, sat by Blaine's bed, thinking things over. ‘I feel so empty,' Jesse heard himself say.

‘You mean you're hungry?' Blaine questioned. Jesse shook his head, realising how his remark could easily be misinterpreted. He hastily clarified.

‘Sort of - emotionally, I think? I just...Rachel was the only person I had. The only person I'd ever had any sort of strong feelings for. My parents and I, we aren't close by any means. I was raised by nannies, by people who weren't even related to me, people who were paid to spend time with me. My mother has never held me, not that I can remember anyhow. As for my father...I hardly know the man,' he said, letting the words tumble out of his mouth and linger on the air. ‘Rachel was the only thing. And now she's gone, Blaine, and even though I have The Swing Youth, it's not enough. There's a gap that only she can fill,' Jesse said, voice wavering as he fought back tears. ‘I'm worried that she'll never come back. And I'll be empty forever,' he explained. He had to take a moment to wipe away a few tears before continuing. ‘Blaine, you and Santana have become so important to me. I love you both and I'm happy - ecstatic, even - to have you both in my life. But every moment I spend with you is too painful. Last night, I sat by your bed the whole time, I mean, I couldn't just leave you. But as the hours wore on, I felt more and more frightened. Because the closer we become, the more it will hurt when we're inevitably separated. I've already felt it, when they took Rachel, and later, Santana. I don't think I can handle losing you too,' he finished, now crying silent tears.

Blaine watched the man before him slowly break. ‘I don't know what to say,' he whispered after a moment.

‘You don't have to say anything. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said all that. You're going through enough,' Jesse apologised quickly, instantly feeling stupidly weak for breaking down like that in front of another man. He ducked his head, embarrassed.

‘Jesse,' Blaine said softly, placing a hand on the man's arm. Jesse raised his head, his own tear-swollen eyes meeting Blaine's, which were shining with tears they were yet to cry. ‘Jesse,' he said again, taking his hand and clasping it firmly. ‘Don't apologise for being human,' he told him. The man in front of him managed to crack a smile, albeit a very, very small one. But a smile nonetheless.

Happiness. It was a long way off, no question. But smiling felt like the only way to get through this hell.

-

Santana walked numbly down the dirty path, same as every day. The mud was slippery, and she almost fell once, twice, thrice, losing count of how far she was falling. The brown sludge clung to her feet and coated her toes, but she couldn't care. Feeling the slop of mud on her bare skin was so gloriously mundane, and it reminded Santana that she was alive.

The war had been going for about three years now, and whilst some people thought it couldn't possibly continue much longer, Santana knew different. She'd read history books. She knew that it could rage on and on and on, for many years yet. So she decided to keep her head down for the time being, maintaining a low profile until the inevitable end came. Fighting from within was useless. She had no weapons and there was only one of her, not to mention that she was terribly weak, weaker than she'd ever been in her life. Both emotionally and physically drained, Santana knew that she could never stand against the Nazis. Waiting was her only option.

It was the start of yet another day. Santana hadn't kept track, so she didn't know how long she'd been here. It most likely felt much longer than it actually had been, she reasoned. The ability to think clearly was something she had not quite lost yet.

It was still dark outside, so Rachel hadn't left for the fields yet. There hadn't been time to say goodbye that morning, because Santana had been taken away earlier than usual. She'd assumed that they were just starting work at a different time, but now she saw that they were not heading towards the factory like usual. One of the officers had come into the bunker and yelled out a handful of names, Santana's among them, and they'd left. There were about twelve of them, walking silently behind the officer. It was only as a few drops of rain began to fall that she realised - they all had brown triangles stitched onto their striped uniforms.

‘Why only gypsies?' she wondered aloud in a soft, personal murmur. Her heart jolted when she realised that she'd spoken out of turn, and she braced herself for a harsh reprimand. When none came, Santana breathed a sigh of relief. Had the Nazis decided to be nice today, or something? Understanding dawned on her - the hammer of rain on the steel roofs all around them was deafening, and easily masked small sounds. Nazis were not nice, she thought, rolling her eyes at her own stupidity. The brief instance of relief at not being heard vanished just as quickly when they began heading towards a building Santana hadn't seen before. They had walked quite far out, and were now significantly distanced from the rest of the camp. She didn't even know the paths were this long. Her heart leapt into her mouth, beating, beating, beating, too quickly, and she fought to catch her breath. She tried to calm herself, telling herself that everything would be alright. Yet, she felt uneasy as the officer opened the small, metal door, and as they were led inside, Santana felt overwhelmingly that everything was not alright.

She was momentarily comforted by the fact that the officer was going in there with them - but the petrifying nausea did not relent. Despite this, she forced herself to look neutral. She would not be like the woman next to her, who had tears coursing down her gaunt, pale face. She would not be like the girl in front of her who stared angrily at the Nazis, her small bony fists clenched by her sides. No, Santana let no expression colour her features. She wouldn't give them anything.

They were made to stand in a line, and then an officer asked their names, checking them one by one on a list that he held in his plump, glove-bound hand.  Santana's mouth was dry when her turn came, and she had to repeat herself. Following this, the officers - four - exited, leaving the prisoners alone. None of them dared to move, or even speak at first; they were so frightened. When it became evident that they were not going to return for some time yet, several women, Santana among them, sat on the floor. She was grateful for this brief opportunity to rest her throbbing legs.

Observing the others, she noticed two women stealing glances at each other. The pair of them looked furtive, nervous, and Santana watched anxiously. The sequence of events that followed happened very quickly, almost simultaneously, amid screams and gunshots that culminated in chaos.

One of the women said, low and ominously, ‘now', looking into the other's eyes meaningfully, as if to say ‘this is it'. Instantly, both sprang into action; one darting to the door and pulling it open - of course! Santana realised: the officer hadn't locked the door - and the other woman stepped outside.

‘It's safe!' She exclaimed, her face breaking into an enormous, victorious grin, her entire body restless, swaying and swinging with nervous excitement. The other woman flew out of the door, an identical grin painted on her face, and then the women were running, the doorway framing a masterpiece of hope. All of this happened in about twenty seconds or so, Santana would later approximate upon recalling the events.

Santana's heart pounded in her chest; she was desperate to run after them and be free again, join them on their great escape...oh, she hadn't been free for so long! But then, just as suddenly as it had all started, there was a bone-crunching bang, and the bodies fell to the ground, limp and motionless, and thus, it was all over. A Nazi smudged the picture upon entry, kicking them roughly to ensure their demise. Santana's heart was now sinking, the pounding excitement all gone as the officers gathered, laughing over the murders.

And the worst of that day was still yet to come.

-

It was after midnight and Kurt was wide awake, despite the fact that the lights had gone out several hours ago. He wasn't the only man unable to sleep by any means, but that thought didn't exactly comfort him.

Sebastian had been moved into Kurt's cell. The Nazis were unrelenting in their quest to rid Germany of homosexuals, and as a consequence the cells were fast filling. Kurt knew it was only a matter of time before he was sent off to a camp. It was the only practical solution, he thought bitterly. He tugged his thin, useless blanket over his shoulders, shivering. Summer was ending far too quickly and the days grew shorter, darker and colder all at once.

‘Kurt,' came Sebastian's soft whisper beside him. ‘Are you awake?' he asked.

‘You can't sleep either?' Kurt murmured back, but it wasn't really a question, so the other boy gave no answer. ‘I didn't understand it, at first. But now I think it might be fear. I think - I think I'm too scared to sleep' he revealed quietly.

‘I don't get scared. Ever,' Sebastian said. It was almost true.

‘It's unconscious - we don't actually realise that we are scared. That's what I think anyway,' Kurt suggested. Sebastian didn't respond, but silently agreed with his friend.

The morning crept in too quickly, and Sebastian found himself sitting at the same dull table, eating the same dull bread and watching the same dull faces of the surrounding men. The food - what little there was - always tasted foul. He'd turned his nose up at it in the beginning, but as the days wore on, his stomach growled all the more and Sebastian found himself giving in. At first he'd chewed slowly and swallowed like it was a chore - the food was disgusting and yet he couldn't get enough. Hunger was tricky. After a while, he learned to just get the eating over with. He knew there was no pleasure to be found in a burned slice of bread, a congealed cup of soup or whatever swill the Nazis tried to pass as a meal - why bother to try and find something that did not exist? So now, like every other morning, Sebastian stuffed the tiny morsel into his mouth and chewed it quickly, not tasting, then swallowing and shoving more in before his mouth had a chance to be empty. Soon he had eaten all the bread - not that there was much to begin with - and was left with a dry mouth and a slight pain in his stomach from eating too quickly. He did this deliberately so as to make himself feel nauseous, and thus, no longer hungry. The pain in his stomach had now been present for so long that the boy could no longer tell if it was hunger or false nausea. And this pain was not isolated - his entire body throbbed and ached, one of many constants in this hell.

Kurt only ate a little of the bread, unable to find the will, nor need, to consume. He tore the doughy lump into tiny shreds, which he toyed with absently, rolling the pieces into small spheres and flicking them about. Recently, Kurt had been playing with his food rather than eating it. Like all the others, he was hungrier than he'd ever been in his life - and he'd faced some truly hard times throughout his sixteen years - yet, he never wanted to eat. He had no appetite. A naturally slim boy, Kurt had become terribly thin over the past few weeks, though nothing compared to some of the other men. Sebastian's bones jutted unpleasantly, skin stretched over tightly like wax. His eyes seemed larger; great orbs of despair wearing dark circles beneath the lower lashes. It was a painful sight. Kurt assumed that he himself didn't look much better, and dreaded the prospect of how his appearance would worsen over the coming weeks.

He hadn't considered the possibility of dying here. His determination, his will to survive - it fuelled him, spurring him on, as did his intense love for Blaine. Dying was not an option. He held out a little hope that someone, anyone, would come and rescue him - but deep down, he knew that this was never going to happen.  Getting rescued simply wasn't an option, Kurt had come to realise, and neither was dying. His only hope was to endure.

Or escape.

-

Jesse watched as the car drove away, his parents inside. They'd barely been home and now they were going away again. He knew there was something wrong; there was sadness in his mother's eyes and his father seemed more tense than usual. They didn't tell him where they were going, just that they wouldn't see him until after Christmas. Jesse had to stay in Berlin; school was starting again soon. He had no intention, however, of actually attending.

As soon as they'd been gone for at least half an hour - by which time they'd be well on their way - Jesse left the apartment and headed over to where Blaine and Brittany lived. It was cold outside and a long walk besides, so he rode a tram. As he sat in the rickety box-car, Jesse began constructing an idea. Upon arrival, he climbed up the cold stone steps, grimacing at the putrid stench of stale urine. Selfishly, he felt grateful that it was not he who lived here. Arriving at their battered, peeling door, Jesse knocked seven times.

Blaine answered the door and looked surprised, but nonetheless happy, to see him.

‘Jesse? What are you doing here?' he asked, stepping aside to allow his friend to enter. Blaine quickly glanced around the empty hallway before closing the door and locking it in four different places. ‘Brittany gets worried,' he explained, noticing Jesse's confused expression. ‘So,' Blaine said, cuing Jesse to speak.

‘I have a proposition for you,' Jesse began, skipping pleasantries. Blaine looked at him quizzically, waiting for him to continue, so he did. ‘My parents have left Berlin - again, I know - and won't be returning for several months. I therefore insist that you and Brittany come to live in my apartment instead of...here,' he said.

Blaine looked taken aback by the offer. ‘Well that's certainly very generous, Jesse, but I'm not sure I can,' he said, choosing his words carefully. Blaine had built this life for himself with no help. He'd always had to look after himself. He'd never been dependent. And he certainly didn't want to start now. But at the same time, he knew that this apartment wouldn't be safe for much longer. It was barely safe now. He and Brittany knew that they were hanging on by a thread. The thread frayed each day, little by little, and Blaine knew that it was going to snap very, very soon. It wouldn't be weak to accept necessary help, would it?

‘Blaine. Please. You can't stay here. It's not safe

-

They'd been in this room for the past half hour or so, waiting whilst the Nazis dealt with the situation outside. Santana was thirsty. The constant hungry ache was something she'd become used to by now, but the thirst burned, transforming her throat into a personal Sahara. She'd missed breakfast that day, due to being woken so early, and thus had lost her only chance to quench the fire.

Santana would have asked if anyone knew what was happening, but none of the women dared utter a word. Everyone seemed thoroughly shaken; two people had just died in cold blood before their eyes, but this did not faze Santana. Besides having built up a very tough, very thick skin over the past years, she'd

They'd been in this room for the past hour or so, waiting whilst the Nazis dealt with the situation outside. Santana was thirsty. The constant hungry ache was something she'd become used to by now, but the thirst burned, transforming her throat into a personal Sahara. She'd missed breakfast today, due to being woken so early, and thus, had lost her only chance to quench the {burn/thirst - TH}.

Santana would have asked if anyone knew what was happening, but none of the women dared utter a word. Everyone seemed thoroughly shaken after two people had died in cold blood before their eyes, but that hadn't fazed Santana. Besides building up a very tough, very thick skin, she'd seen death before, too many times, and as a result she had become somewhat immune. She wasn't sure exactly when this had happened. It just had. It was good, she supposed, because it meant she wasn't constantly reduced to an emotional mess of depression, as was the case with Rachel. The rafters they lay on would shudder and shake every single night as Rachel violently sobbed herself into a sleep that wasn't truly sleep.

Footsteps sounded, coming from the corridor behind them. Uniformed, cold clacking; wide-heeled boots advancing over the hard hallway floor in haunting polyphony with the ominous cocking of guns. Nazis. As if on cue, the women stood up, those who weren't already; nerves and tension pricking every inch of their bodies and they became stone. Not Santana. She stood tall and steady, her expression calm and {stony TH}. When the Nazis entered, everyone's head drooped, eyes fixed firmly on the floor in an attempt to hide the tears accumulating there. Not Santana. She met their gazes, her eyes as dry as her mouth. The men noticed this, and seemed irritated.

They hadn't made her quake in fear like the rest of them. Santana felt the smallest, briefest swell of pride that they hadn't gotten to her. It warmed her from within, just for a moment, her heart turning cold again just as quickly.

The Nazis checked their names against yet another list, and muttered amongst themselves for a moment. Then another one entered, bearing two large pitchers of water, followed by another who held a tray of cups. Santana's dark eyes were glued to the water. She wanted to snatch a pitcher right out of his enormous privileged hand and pour the beautiful, clear liquid down her {dry TH} throat, before grabbing the other and doing the same. Surely she'd never be thirsty again, if she did that. But she hastily shook herself out of this dangerously impractical fantasy and remained focused. Santana's heart sank as she realised that the fantasies she had now were about drinking water. This was what they had reduced her life to.

--

All eyes were on her. She knew they weren't all looking just at her. She knew they were watching the others, too. She knew she was being paranoid; she knew she was no different to the other people here. And yet, there was an undeniable sense of something all about her. She felt thoroughly distinct and she decided that she didn't like it.

Her pace quickened, but not so much so as to seem suspicious. She could feel her heart beating hard, her breath sputtering out in little coughs and gasps. Terrified that this would give something away, she tried to supress it, tried to hold her breath, but this made her throat seize up and her eyes water as her lungs ached for air.

She glanced around, the world blurring before her, and she hastily ducked her head. Crying was the last thing she could do. They couldn't see her breaking. As she continued on her way, more and more people just seemed to appear all around her. Was it all because of her? Were they all here because she was here? No, that was ridiculous. Then why were they all looking at her? They weren't looking at her. They were. They weren't. They were. Why were they looking at her? The questions ran around her head, faster and faster, sprinting like fire until her brain was burning. Could her uncried tears put out these flames? She pondered this briefly, her neck growing stiff from staring at the ground for so long. But she didn't dare look up.

She'd endured worse than this. She still was. A little stiffness in her neck was nothing to her anymore; in fact, she welcomed it! It was so fantastically normal. She remembered those days of the past when this sort of pain had actually hurt; she remembered them with a heart shattering clarity. She knew those days were over. They should still be going on, right now, but something stronger and bigger than her and all she'd ever known had intervened, and executed that life before it had even played itself out.

And now, life was just the strangest sensation. She was in the same place. So much was missing and so much had been added. All change. And not for the better.

It couldn't possibly change back. Well, obviously - that wasn't possible - she knew that - what she meant was that even if somehow it did change, physically and politically, it would never go back to how it was. It would only be skin deep.

-

Jesse walked through the familiar gates of his school. He'd been here many times before, of course he had - but he'd never come alone. Except for that one week last year when Rachel had been ill

and he was simultaneously not speaking to his friends Jake and Ryder due to a small argument that had seemed life-alteringly serious at the time, but looking back, was pathetically insignificant. As he walked, he tried to keep his head up. A bowed head and slow pace was suspicious, but then, so was a too-confident, jaunty saunter. Finding the balance was a precise art, one which Jesse had not quite mastered yet. So he hoped for the best. Besides, this was school. Much as he often loathed the place, it was at least safe. He was doubtful that anything serious would happen today, and he didn't

expect anything to have drastically changed here. The absence of Rachel was something he'd already become used to, much to his dismay, and as he came into the entrance hall and breathed in the familiar odour of wood polish and stress, it was evident that Jesse would have to endure the absence of many other students too. The first day back after the summer holidays was supposed to be busy, the corridors bustling with gaggles of students, the atmosphere buzzing with chatter and laughter as friends greeted each other with anecdotes and exaggerations. But not today. Jesse looked around, less than half of the student body populating the area. Those that were present only seemed so in the physical sense. Depression and ignorance coloured the air, and he wished he'd kept in contact with some of his classmates over the summer to find out what had been going on. It was only as he saw Ryder waving at him that Jesse abruptly realised that Jake wouldn't be here anymore. Jake was Jewish and was probably in a camp like most of the others. He mentally kicked himself for forgetting this.

'Hello Jesse,' Ryder greeted him curtly.

'Rye,' Jesse used his nickname.

'It's Ryder,' he corrected him. Jesse looked at his friend in surprise. They'd been calling him Rye since they were twelve. Upon closer inspection, Ryder seemed...not quite the same. His hair was rigidly combed with wax, his clothes were pressed painfully tightly and his smile didn't quite reach his eyes. 'You seem...ah,' Jesse couldn't find the words. 'Different?' Ryder suggested. He laughed, but it wasn't his real laugh. It was dry and fake. 'I've had a fantastic summer, Jesse. Truly remarkable. How was yours?' he asked. 'Oh, nothing particularly special,' Jesse answered casually. There was no way Ryder was going to find out about what he'd been doing this summer. 'I miss Rachel, of course,' he added.

'How could you ever miss that?' Ryder spat disdainfully. Jesse

frowned.

'Because I love her,' he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. 'And don't talk about her in that way, Ryder.

Don't you miss Jake?' he asked.

'Hardly. I'm glad he's gone. Rachel too,' Ryder stated calmly.

Jesse stared at his friend in disbelief, growing angry.

'What happened to you? Jake was your best friend,' he said incredulously.

'I've seen sense, Jesse. Tell me, have you read this?' Ryder asked, retrieving a small book from within his satchel. It was a copy of Mein Kampf. Jesse shook his head, the reason for his friend's change becoming all too clear. He couldn't quite believe what was happening. Hitler had destroyed Ryder, one of the strongest people Jesse knew. Was there nothing the Nazis couldn't do? He felt the book being pressed into his hands. 'You ought to read it. It was an utter revelation, Jesse, it's changed my life. For the better' Ryder told him. Jesse firmly pushed the indoctrination away.

'No thank you,' he said quietly. It was then that he noticed a gold swastika pinned to Ryder's shirt, and Jesse almost cried. He walked away, not realising the possible implications of his actions until later.

STUFF IN THE CLASSROOM

When the final bell rang, signalling the end of the school day, Jesse wanted to run as fast as he could. But that would make him stand out. It would be suspicious. So he walked out of school, swift and smooth, his face blank. He mounted his bicycle and rode through the busy streets - not as busy as they used to be, he noted. He ignored the posters on the walls around him, his fingers itching to rip every single one down and burn them to ashes. He stopped himself. It was just another thing that couldn't be done. Finally arriving at his apartment building, he raced up the stairs, two at a time - no need to be wary any more - all the while thinking about the time he and Santana had heard the Nazis' thundering footsteps ascending these same steps. He'd climbed them on many occasions  since that night, and yet he still flashed back to that terrible night every time. He slammed the door behind him, calling out 'Boy, it's good to be home' as he took off his shoes. Jesse said these same words whenever he entered the apartment so that Blaine would know it was him. Sure enough, the other man emerged from a room down the hall, knowing it was safe.

'Afternoon,' Blaine greeted. As he walked towards Jesse, he saw that his friend was starting to cry.

‘Jesse? What's wrong?' he said, resting his hand on Jesse's shoulder.

'Everything,' he said, voice thick with tears, collapsing onto Blaine's shoulder as he cried.

Blaine gently lead him over to the couch and Jesse told him everything while Blaine held him. 'It's alright to cry,' he told Jesse. 'Don't -'

'Don't tell me to not apologise for being human,' Jesse murmured. 'I feel awful for crying. We're the same, you and I. So who am I to cry while you're going through the same? And yet you always manage to stay so strong. How can I cry when Rachel is going through goodness knows what...' his voice trailed off.

'You're allowed to react, Jesse, your feelings are valid,' Blaine said calmly, trying not to correct him.

Jesse shook his head. 'You have to hide. You've always had to hide and lie, about who you are, and what you feel. And you probably always will,' he explained sadly.

'Don't you understand? That's why we're not the same! We can never be the same. I wish this wasn't the case, but this is reality and we cannot pretend like we're going through the same hell, or that we ourselves are no different from each other. Because that's not true. And I don't think that it ever will be,' Blaine exploded, now crying too.

'No - don't - talk like that...so, maybe we're not the same,' Jesse began, but Blaine interrupted.

'But that's not for you to say, Jesse, because I am the one who is inferior, and it's you: the so-called normal people who oppress me and make me feel worthless every single day. Yes, we have both lost

our loved ones. But I never even truly had mine in the first place because I have never been allowed to have him! I am a homosexual. And that's never going to change, no matter how much I wish it could sometimes, and because of this; because I have this trait that I cannot change, I'm going to be stifled and silenced every waking moment for the rest of my life, if things don't change. And as optimistic as I am, I don't think they will change. And you can sympathise all you want, but that's all you can do because you will never understand. You will never have to go through this secret hiding and this second - hell, third class - status that I endure. When Rachel was here, you held her hand and you walked through the streets together. You could say whatever you wanted, you could tell her you loved her, every minute of every hour of every day, you - you kissed her lips as many times as you wanted. You never had to think twice. You don't have to glance over your shoulder when you walk through this city. You don't have to confine yourself to certain safe places because everywhere is your safe place. You don't have to watch your words the way I do and you don't have to keep one eye open when you sleep at night. You - you have so much privilege, Jesse, that you just take for granted. You had sex with her outside! In the open!' he spluttered incredulously. 'And yes, I know sexual relations in public is illegal and yes, if you were caught you'd have been punished, no doubt. But do you know what would happen if I had sex with K-Kurt in public? Our act is no different to yours, but we would be punished so much more. I don't even want to think about it. Kurt is living it,'

Blaine took a deep breath before continuing, more quietly, 'if I so much as smiled at him too widely. Or allowed my eyes to linger on his a little longer than necessary? No. You have no idea, of course you don't. You've never had to think about it. You're normal. You're not wrong. You're not sick, you're not depraved,' he spat angrily.

'But you're not wrong,' Jesse began, but Blaine cut across him.

'Oh, well done! You overcame all of their bullshit, you saw through their smoke screen of lies, and realised a basic truth! I am past just being happy when someone accepts me as a homosexual. Do you need some sort of prize, some type of award for being a decent human being? Well I'm not going to give you one - you get nothing, because I too have nothing! Thank you for acknowledging me as an equal and for not believing I should be punished or murdered for being who I am. That's it, that's all you get from me. When Kurt was here, I could only hold his hand in three places. Three places, in all of Berlin, in this enormous city. There were only three safe places. And even then we had to be careful. I could only kiss him behind closed doors, and even then I had to be prepared for someone finding out. When we had sex, when we made love for the first time, I had to be prepared for him to report me - I had to be prepared in case it was all a setup, to catch me. You do not have to live with these boundaries and these walls, Jesse, you never and you never will.'

'I didn't ask - '

'Oh, do you think that I asked? Do you think that I asked to be born like this? Do you think that I asked to grow up ashamed and scared and convinced that I had a disease? Do you think I asked to be made to hide myself, obscure the essence of what makes me myself? Do you think that I asked the great minds of the Reichstag to condemn my love as a crime, punishable by death? Do you think that I asked for them to conceive that idea and approve it, and sign it into law? Do you think I asked for the love of my life to be torn out of my arms and taken away, just because he is a boy and I am a boy? No. I never asked for any of this, Jesse. And nobody ever would. I can't speak for my future, but for now, I am less and you are more. I am wrong and you are right. I am bad and you are good. I am nothing. And you are everything. And there's no good reason for it.' Blaine was breathing quickly, his eyes shining with tears.

Jesse put his hand on Blaine's arm, trying to calm him, and spoke gently, trying to calm him down. 'It's because -'

'No. Don't,' Blaine shook off Jesse's hand. 'Please,' he said, now crying, silent tears slowly but surely running down his face. 'Don't give a reason, for none exists. Don't excuse it, don't explain it. Don't justify it. I'm not going to stay and listen to a reason,' Blaine crossed the room, heading for the door, wiping his face.

'Blaine - please,' Jesse begged feebly. He couldn't live here alone. And more importantly, he couldn't lose Blaine too. Not after everything else he'd lost.

'No. I'm done, Jesse,' Blaine told him softly. He began buttoning his coat as he spoke. ‘At least you have a school. And parents. And a home. Money, food, clothes, warmth. You have that, at least. I don't,' he finished, closing the door behind him with a firm clunk of finality.

Jesse remained on the sofa, the sound of Blaine's sad footsteps growing distant until only silence remained. And that's when Jesse realised that he was truly alone.

He let out a sound that was somewhere between a sob and a sigh as he stared at the deserted space before him, no longer occupied by Blaine. He spoke to the empty air, a stream of desperate incoherent whispers, running his hands through his hair again and again. He slid onto the floor, his arms wrapped tightly around his body. Jesse landed with a small thump, and he began breathing very heavily, his breath catching every so often, emitting a tiny, strangled sound. It was almost a sob.

Jesse couldn't do it anymore. He couldn't go on like this. He had to try harder. He had to be better. He had to do something about everything. He had no idea how. He would, though, one day. One day he'd have hundreds of ideas about how to change it all. He told himself this. Forced himself to believe it. He wasn't going to sit around and wait for someone else to fix the problems. He couldn't do that anymore. He'd been doing that long enough and, clearly, it didn't fucking work. Blaine had woken him up. He had to stop feeling sorry for himself, because really, he was far from the worst off.

He stumbled into the kitchen and splashed his face with cold water, then took a few deep breaths and let the clear droplets slide off him. He felt a bit calmer. As he walked steadily into the bathroom to relieve himself, Jesse looked at his reflection in the mirror. He took in his strong physique, his attractive features. His youth. His wealth. His religion, or lack thereof. His attraction to women. His white skin. He was privileged, Jesse realised, sickeningly so. He knew what Blaine had meant now.

He found himself back in the living room, sitting down carefully, his strong hands gripping the arms of the chair to keep himself still. His eyes were fixed on a tiny mark on the floor, a dull brown chink against the light gold wood. Most people wouldn't even notice it. Those who did wouldn't consider it beyond a brief moment. Those who considered it would assume it was old gravy dribble, clumsy ink splodge or red wine splatter. Jesse was the only one who knew what it was. It was blood.

Rachel had caught her finger. Scarlet liquid fell out of her. Some went on her dress. Some on Jesse. And some on the floor. She'd cried out. Surprise. Sudden. Pain. Jesse stopped the bleeding. He bathed it, wrapped it. Only a little blood, she protested. He bared his teeth. Like Dracula, he growled. She laughed. Ducked her head. Stop, no, she giggled. He silenced her with a kiss.

All so long ago, now.

That used to be the extent of their problems. But her world had gotten so sharp. And Jesse could no longer stop the bleeding.