The sun slowly sunk below the horizon, the orange hue glaring his eyes until it was cold and chilly as he turned over endless, impossible possibilities over in his head.

His worry for Kal's mental and physical health was in the forefront of his mind obviously, but there was no mistake that the fact that Kal had called him 'Blaine' instead of 'Ben' before passing out was quite troubling.

How could he have known? There was just no way.

No rational explanations came up except for maybe he's always known. That he and Burt research every recruit that comes in just to make sure they can be trusted, even with an alias.

But that all seemed too treacherous. It would defeat the point of the whole organization. They wouldn't arrange so many appearances at events, glue eye-catching posters to walls of all they stood for and speak with reverence if that were the case.

Everything about the movement was based in something that Blaine knew he could trust.

So there had to be something else-

However, the more he thought about it, the more his skin crawled. The more it felt like he was closing in on a secret that he wasn't allowed to know.

The more like he felt like he was being watched.

Blaine stopped in his tracks and looked over his shoulder to make sure, but it didn't calm him.

There was just so much he didn't know.

The crawl up his spine and his restless mind reminded him of that fact. But it was so dark now and he needed to get home.

***

Kurt spent most of the time flowing between wake and consciousness trying not to remember the scraps of events from his evening.

A dull throb ached in his wrist in time with the thumping in his head. His mouth was dry and felt like was filled with cotton, and it only got worse each time he swallowed. An utterly uncomfortable tickle rolled just under his skin - his spine - churning the contents of his stomach each time he moved.

He allowed sensations of pounding music and slick skin invade him. Rachel's short skirt sliding up as she splayed her legs in Puck's lap, sliding her tongue down his throat while his salty, thick thumb pressed something thin and bitter into Kurt's mouth. He was already so, so drunk.

Kurt remembered dancing with a girl with full red lips and a gaunt face. She had gentle doe eyes and luscious hair but she reeked of cigarettes and her push-up bra was silky soft under his fingers because he just needed something to touch.

There was a euphoria he had never quite experienced before. He saw things, things he knew weren't there, but it opened his mind up to endless roads that he wished he had more time to explore.

He remembered riding around in Puck's cramped black truck, trash squished under his sticky-bottomed shoes; cool air was rushing through his hair, making his nose and ears numb. They passed around a harsh, burning joint that scorched Kurt's throat, tears clouding his vision, causing all the lights passing by to be blurred and starred.

Later, Kurt recalled feeling sick, leaving the group in the alleyway on the side of a seedy club which included Rachel giving Puck an obnoxiously loud, slurping blowjob - which he most definitely didn't feel like witnessing at this point in his life, or at any point in his life for that matter.

A blank-wrister that Kurt could not recall the name of followed him out and tried to kiss him, but Kurt pushed him away, repulsed now by the idea of any contact, and was just wishing to go home.

He walked, stumbled and jogged until he found his car, feeling so torn apart on the inside that he thought he was near death.

All traces of euphoria were gone except for the painful, hollow reality of how alone he was.

Nobody loved him.

He had no real friends to call his own. Blaine loved a fantasy. His mother was dead. His father was basically a stranger to him. But despite all that Kurt craved them more than ever.

He felt like he was suffocating.

Then there was the pounding in his head that shook and rattled his teeth, twisting his stomach, causing him to gag in pain, his hand lifelessly gripping the door handle of his car.

All of his emotions seemed too much to hold; he felt like they were going to burst through his clammy skin and consume him alive, signaling the defeat of such a young soul who couldn't help but just give up.

Kurt choked, tears streaming into his gaping mouth and burning nose; there was so many rancid smells around him, but maybe it was just him. His entire body was crushing with an unfathomable agony - of everything, and he begged anybody who would be willing to listen to make it stop.

It was recalled like he was an observer watching a horrifying film; in a whirlwind of color and sound, Kurt flung open his door and reached blindly through his console, gripping the hilt of a small knife that he kept on him at all times.

There was always comfort with having it whenever he was out in public for mild protection from possible radicals that were on a witch hunt for people like Kurt and those he associated with.

He mostly just heard stories about them in books and oral tradition, how the blank-wristers were the ones generally targeted for their "blasphemy" of not being branded by a name like everyone else.

Perhaps those who refused to acknowledge their wrists infuriated these people more, so it kept Kurt's mind at ease to know he was armed in some way.

But despite that, Kurt longed to be one of them, the blank wristers - to be free.

He ripped his cuff off in one go before clumsily climbing into the driver's seat, simultaneously pressing his forehead against the steering wheel and the cool blade against his heated skin.

A clawing revulsion of his desire to sever his skin almost made him heave again, but then he thought of Blaine again to distract himself.

How blissfully unaware he must be of it all; how he had absolutely no idea he was the bane of Kurt's existence despite how improbable and breathtaking the happenstance was.

Yet Kurt just wanted to slice the name away, and maybe - just maybe - things could go back to the way they were; so much less complicated.

Despite how immature and childish the wish was, Kurt cut a long stroke down next to the 'B', red liquid blooming in its wake, disturbing the flawless lettering of his wrist.

Kurt cried out, pulling away for a moment with a jagged shiver but the pressed down again, underlying 'Anderson' with a brutal finality.

He wasn't sure if he did it again or not because red blended with black and faded until he was passed out.

When Kurt woke he felt terrifyingly stone cold sober, hyper-aware of all that he had done. He wasn't sure how long it had been.

He solemnly acknowledged that he had hit rock bottom and decided to drive home calmly, hoping the bleeding in his wrist could be stopped by his cuff.

The mistake he made, however was neglecting to check many missed calls and his voicemail, completely unaware his father had invited 'Ben' over to dinner that night.