Carole had just stepped out of the shower in her hotel room (God, she loved hotel showers – the water pressure at home was iffy at best) early Sunday morning when the phone on the end table beside her bed gave a piercing ring, startling her and nearly making her drop her toothbrush into the sink. She wrapped a fluffy towel around herself and half-ran to the phone, grabbing the receiver on the fourth ring.

"Hello?" she answered, shivering as her hair dripped onto her bare shoulders.

"Hi, honey."

A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, followed immediately by worry. "Burt, what's wrong?"

"Nothing, I…" Burt said, though it didn't sound very reassuring. Carole could hear in his voice that he hadn't slept the night before. "Just thought I'd call. See how you and Finn were doing."

"We're fine," Carole promised him.

"When's the competition?"

Carole glanced at the clock. It was only 8:23. "It starts at noon," she replied. "I'm not sure when exactly Finn's performing, though."

"Cool. Give me a call once it's over and let me know how they did."

"I will." She chewed lightly on her bottom lip for a moment. "Burt, are you all right?"

There was a heavy sigh on the other end, and then a noise like he'd rubbed a hand over his eyes in exhaustion. "I think so."

"Did Kurt come back?"

"No, uh… Truman was here for most of the day yesterday, and then Zack came out later on. Kurt's still asleep right now."

"Did something happen?"

"Nothing huge," he said. "Nothing I can't handle."

There was an indescribable weariness in Burt's tone, and it made Carole feel like her lungs were ripping apart from each other as the realization hit her – Burt could handle it. He could, because he'd been handling all of it – the alters and everything that came with them – for nearly ten years on his own. He was too familiar with the position of being a single parent of a sick child.

Carole was abruptly slammed with a wave of guilt for being in Chicago when Burt and Kurt needed her to be in Lima, and then another wave as she felt guilty for thinking that Finn didn't need her either.

"I love you, Burt," she told him, mostly because she needed to hear it for herself.

"I know. I love you too."

She glanced at the clock again. 8:27. "I have to leave in a few minutes; I'm meeting Hiram and Leroy for breakfast in the lobby."

"Okay, I'll let you go."

"Burt, you sound…" she stopped him from hanging up, but trailed off as the word disappeared from her tongue.

"What?"

Unhappy—desperate—scared—

—lonely.

No wonder Burt had been too afraid to say anything about Kurt's illness when Carole and Finn had moved in with them.

"…like you're not all right," she finished. "What's going on?"

Burt was silent for almost ten seconds, and Carole's heart thudded loudly in her ears, anxiety gnawing at the pit of her stomach.

"Zack's still drawing the Chinese stuff."

Carole swallowed. "Sweetheart, I know that putting John in jail might help bring Kurt some closure eventually, but that's not something that will happen right away. These things take a while."

"No, I know. I know."

"It's not fair that he takes any more time from Kurt's life or yours than he already has, but we still have to be patient with Kurt, okay?"

"I know," Burt repeated. "I'm trying."

Burt hadn't been able to sleep during the night. At least, not for very long, and now his back and legs were stiff from sitting on the living room floor with Kurt for so long. It had taken him almost an hour to persuade Kurt to go to bed, and when Kurt finally surrendered, he'd spent so much of his energy that Burt had to nearly drag him up the stairs. Up until seven this morning, Burt had tossed and turned and swum in and out of consciousness rather than get the sleep he so badly needed, so he'd given up and spent the last several hours in the kitchen swallowing cup after cup of coffee as strong as he could brew it.

He was in the middle of attempting the crossword in the Sunday newspaper when Kurt staggered into the kitchen, still half-asleep and rubbing his eyes. "Mornin'," he yawned, his hair sticking up in several directions.

"How'd you sleep?" Burt asked, taking a gulp of coffee.

Kurt blinked, almost jumping like he'd expected someone else. "Oh," he said, his brow knitting in confusion. "Hi, Dad. Weren't you supposed to get in this afternoon?"

Burt paused, mid-sip. "…It's Sunday."

"…Oh."

"Damn it! Rachel, I can't get this damn pin right!"

Rachel glanced up from where she was pinning up her hair in front of one of the dressing room mirrors, a few extra bobby pins clamped between her lips. Mercedes was looking at her imploringly, half of her hair still spilling over her shoulders. They (and the rest of the girls scattered about the room, all working on their hair and makeup) were clothed in lilac and black dresses to match. Rachel quickly made sure that her own hairdo was finished before moving to stand behind Mercedes.

"Are you all right?" she asked, pulling a few pins out of Mercedes' hair and starting over completely. It was unlike Mercedes to be anxious before a performance – at least, it was unusual for that anxiety to manifest as frustration with miniscule problems.

"I'm just a little nervous," Mercedes brushed off Rachel's concern.

"It's not the first time we've performed at Nationals," Rachel tried, twisting Mercedes' hair against her head.

"I know, and the last time we lost," Mercedes retorted tightly, reaching forward to move a pile of combs and hair ties aside. "This is our last chance to win before graduation. And now I can't find my damn purple eyeliner!"

Rachel's hands dropped to her sides, leaving Mercedes' hair alone. "Mercedes, you've never been nervous before. Not since sophomore year, anyway. What's going on?"

Mercedes sighed heavily, avoiding Rachel's gaze. "I am nervous," she said softly.

"Why?"

"It doesn't feel right."

"Because Kurt's not here?"

Mercedes was silent, staring at her hands as they rested on the vanity table. Rachel moved to sit in the chair next to her.

"He was my best friend," Mercedes said after a minute. "For awhile, anyway. I – I don't know anymore."

Rachel frowned. "You don't think he's still a friend of yours?"

"I don't know."

"Why wouldn't he be?"

Mercedes propped her elbow on the table, resting her cheek on her fist. "It's more that I don't think I'm a friend of his."

"What do you mean?"

Mercedes opened her mouth to answer, but Tina piped up from the door as she and the other girls were filing out of the room. "Guys! Come on, the show's starting soon."

"We'll be there in a minute," Rachel said, waving her off.

Tina shrugged and followed Brittany and Sugar out, shutting the door behind her. Rachel turned her attention to Mercedes, raising her eyebrows expectantly.

"I never visited him in the hospital," Mercedes admitted, her fingers tightly intertwining. "I never talked to him. I-I wouldn't talk to him." Her voice cracked a little, thick and thin at the same time. "He scared me."

"I think you should keep Kurt and his alters separate," Rachel advised gently, resting her hands in the airy purple skirt covering her lap. "You know Kurt would never act like they do."

Mercedes closed her eyes with a sigh, brushing a palm over her forehead. "God, how did this get so messed up?"

Rachel swallowed, feeling a small wave of nausea as the image of a small – incomprehensibly small – Kurt lying curled and bruised and cringing in a bed belonging to someone less fragmented. "Things get messed up, Mercedes," she said quietly, almost absentmindedly, staring into space. "It happens."

"I could've done something."

"Maybe, maybe not," Rachel countered, blinking and sitting up straighter. "You saw how Blaine was when this all started."

"Yeah, but Kurt's talking to Blaine again."

"Only because Blaine started talking to Kurt," Rachel said, turning to double-check her makeup in the mirror. "Kurt's not going to come to you at this point, Mercedes; he's got too much going on to worry about."

Mercedes sniffed. "I just wish he was here."

"I know, me too," Rachel agreed. "You know he would kill you if he saw you were nervous about going onstage, though, right?"

A tiny chuckle jumped from Mercedes' throat. "I'm not nervous about going out there," she said. "I'm nervous about going out there without him." She shrugged. "Guess I'm just used to knowing he's standing behind me."

Rachel pressed her lips together, then reached back to grab Brittany's eyeliner pencil from the vanity behind her. "Tell you what," she said, handing the pencil to Mercedes. "Finish your makeup, and I'll talk to Finn and Kurt and see if we can have the celebratory afterparty at their house."

Mercedes frowned. "You don't know if we'll win or not."

"Of course we're going to win," Rachel replied curtly, rolling her eyes. "Blaine and Santana are our soloists."

Mercedes' eyebrows nearly disappeared beneath her bangs.

"Oh, don't give me that look. We'd still win if I was singing."

Burt and Kurt spent the morning on the couch with their feet propped up on the coffee table, the TV alternating between ESPN and Lifetime biopic about Meryl Streep and a gigantic bowl of buttery popcorn between them. It had been a while since they'd indulged in this routine of being two people with almost nothing in common but still trying to find a middle ground, and Kurt was relieved in the easy familiarity of it.

When the popcorn bowl was empty and Kurt was just starting to doze off on the arm of the couch, the doorbell rang. Burt muted the TV and was about to stand up, but Kurt waved him back with a yawn. "I'll get it. Don't miss your game."

Kurt stretched out the kink in his neck as he headed for the front door, running his fingers through his hair to make sure it didn't look like a briar patch (and thank God Carole had given him a haircut on Friday) before turning the doorknob.

"…Quinn," he said, not quite a greeting.

"Hi," she replied, a tentative smile on her face and her hands in her jacket pockets. The smile faded as her eyes drifted down to the side of his neck, widening as she took in the sight of the anchor inked into his skin there, but she didn't mention it (Kurt wasn't sure why).

Kurt frowned. "Why aren't you in Chicago?"

"I was suspended."

His eyebrows shot up, more surprised by that than by the fact that Quinn was standing on his porch. "Seriously?"

Quinn shrugged with one shoulder. "I beat up Jacob Ben Israel."

Kurt didn't say anything for several seconds, simply because he couldn't tell if she was joking or even if he was supposed to react, but then a laugh burst out of his mouth. (Quinn looked mildly startled at the noise, but quickly recovered.)

"I, uh…" she started, pulling a USB stick out of her pocket and holding it out to him. "I taped our rehearsals for you. Since you weren't going to Nationals."

Kurt took the USB, simultaneously mildly astonished and very confused. "…Thanks," he said slowly.

"What?" Quinn prompted, tensing at the suspicious look on Kurt's face.

"I— Didn't you think I was faking?" Kurt had to ask.

Quinn's mouth pressed into a thin line for a moment before she responded, carefully saying, "I don't know if you are or not, but… at this point, I don't really care."

"Really," Kurt replied flatly.

She swallowed, her hands clasping tightly in front of her stomach. "I apologized to Finn and Blaine, you know," she said. "For how I was acting before."

Kurt didn't say anything, not really sure if he cared enough whether or not that was supposed to mean something to him.

"It was a while ago, in March," Quinn clarified, tucking her hair behind her ear. "I – I asked Finn to pass it on to you."

"I wasn't here in March."

"…Oh," she said lamely. She took a deep breath. "Well, I hope you enjoy the rehearsal video."

"Hey, Quinn," Kurt stopped her as she turned to leave. "You can hang out for a bit, if you want." He shrugged. He didn't really know why he'd extended the invitation, if he was being honest. Maybe he was just lonely.

She gave a hesitant, uncertain smile. "Are you going to change personalities on me?"

"Not unless you provoke me," Kurt matched her awkwardly joking tone. "Come on, we have sodas in the fridge."

The New Directions were the fourth group of the day slotted to perform. As the third group (Streetwise, a club from New Orleans that seemed to be more of a hip-hop dance crew than a choir) took their bows following an energetic AWOLNATION medley, the New Directions crowded backstage, bustling about and double-checking to make sure their costumes were perfect. Mercedes' heart was thudding in her chest, her palms clammy as she fluffed her skirt. She wouldn't have to go onstage for another few minutes since Blaine was taking the first solo, but the wait almost felt worse than just getting it over with.

Blaine was standing off to the side of the stage, watching the previous group take more bows than was probably necessary as he fiddled with rolling up the cuffs of his sleeves. His fingers were shaking. Mercedes bit her lip, then walked up to join him.

"Let me do it," she said, reaching over to button his cuff so that the sleeve would stay rolled just above his elbow. The boys' outfits were more informal than the girls' dresses – a tight black t-shirt, black jeans, and sneakers complimented with an unbuttoned collared purple shirt. Blaine's hair had less gel in it than usual, sitting a little more loosely on top of his head.

"Thanks," Blaine mumbled, shifting in place as he held out his other arm for her. "Hey, Mercedes?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you… do you wish you'd gone to the trial?"

Mercedes shook her head, swallowing. "No. Why?"

Something unidentifiable flitted over Blaine's face. "I-I can't stop thinking about it," he said. "I… kind of feel like I'm about to throw up all the time."

"I'm sure it's just stage fright."

He nodded, though he looked like he didn't believe her at all. "Yeah, it probably is."

The announcer's voice cut through the noise from the audience, calling, "And now, ladies and gentlemen, from Lima, Ohio… the New Directions!"

"Time for your solo," Mercedes said, quickly adjusting Blaine's sleeve one last time. "You'll kill it. Go, go, go!"

The lights on the stage dimmed and then shut off, and Blaine took a deep breath, swallowing before walking out into the darkness.

Mercedes' hands clasped together tightly as she watched Blaine step up to the single microphone stand, a spotlight clanking on a moment later and illuminating his silhouette. It was quiet in the auditorium, the room so large that the silence felt thick and smothering. Blaine's hands reached up to hold the microphone, drawing another slow breath before opening his mouth.

"Come on, skinny love, just last the year," he sang, the words echoing all the way to the back of the audience. There was no supporting music, and Blaine's voice stood honestly on its own. "Pour a little salt, we were never here…"

The air abruptly halted in Mercedes' chest.

"My, my, my…" Blaine's eyes slit shut."My, my, my… my, my… Staring at this sink of blood and crushed veneer."

Mercedes felt Rachel come up to stand beside her, quietly reaching down to hold her hand.

"Tell my love to wreck it all," Blaine sang, his voice rising. "Cut out all the ropes and let me fall. My, my, my…" His knuckles went white around the microphone. "Right in this moment, this order's tall…"

During the past few months, since everything had turned sour, Mercedes hadn't really given Blaine a whole lot of thought. Maybe she should have, but Blaine had always seemed so put-together and unwilling to show if he was having a hard time with anything. It was so different from Kurt, who had been an open book (or so she thought) even if he didn't want to talk about it.

"And I told you to be patient, and I told you to be fine…"

Blaine was so difficult to read, and it was almost a startling realization for Mercedes, who had always thought of Blaine as just… part of Kurt. She'd met him through Kurt, he'd come to McKinley for Kurt, and now that Kurt was gone, Mercedes was slammed with the fact that she really didn't know him at all.

"And I told you to be balanced, and I told you to be kind…"

Rachel's hand tightened around Mercedes' fingers. Blaine's face was slightly contorted, the contours of his jaw and cheeks and eyes highlighted by the spotlight beam.

"And in the morning I'll be with you, but it will be a different kind, 'cause I'll be holding all the tickets, but you'll be owning all the fines…"

Blaine leaned away from the microphone for a moment, still gripping it tightly as he caught his breath.

"Do you think he's okay?" Mercedes whispered.

Rachel didn't take her eyes off him. "I don't know."

"Come on, skinny love, what happened here?" Blaine continued, a trace of rough desperation slipping into his voice. "Suckle on the hope in lite brassiere… My, my, my… My, my, my… Sudden load is full, so slow on the split."

"When was the last time he and Kurt talked?" Mercedes asked out the corner of her mouth.

Rachel shook her head, shrugging. "Before the trial, I think. I'm not sure."

"And I told you to be faithful, and I told you to be fine…" Blaine's voice had fallen to a heavy tone, the roughness gone. "And I told you to be balanced, and I told you to be kind… Now all your love is wasted; and who the hell was I? 'Cause now I'm breaking at the britches, and at the end of all your lines…"

He took another deep breath, the sound of it reverberating through the microphone.

"Who will love you? Who will fight? And who will fall, far behind?" His eyes closed tightly again. "Come on, skinny love, just last the year…"

Blaine's voice faded away, and the spotlight vanished.

His heart thudding painfully in his chest and roaring in his ears, Blaine quickly moved off the stage to make room for the girls in the Troubletones to take their places for the next number. Blaine felt nauseous and slightly dizzy, and he had no idea if he'd received applause or not. Breathing deep and trying to get his stomach to stop churning, Blaine leaned back against the wall backstage, tugging his fingers through his hair.

"Dude," said Sam, placing a hand on Blaine's shoulder. "You okay? You look like you're going to hurl."

"I just need a minute," Blaine breathed, refusing to look Sam in the eye.

Why was this happening to him? Why couldn't he just calm down?

Out on the stage, the lights had begun to dance through the air along with the girls, illuminating them like glow-in-the-dark stars pinned to the wall. "Weep for yourself, my man, you'll never be what is in your heart," Mercedes crooned, her silky voice supported by the overlapping harmonization from the rest of the girls as they spun across the floor. "Weep, little lion man, you're not as brave as you were at the start…"

"Rate yourself and rake yourself, take all the courage you have left," Santana chimed in, her words richly overtaking the song. "Wasted on fixing all the problems that you made in your own head."

Blaine's chest tightened, his lungs clenching around his heart and making his brain feel light in his skull. Why was it so hard for him to breathe?

"Tremble for yourself, my man, you know that you have seen this all before," Mercedes belted. "Tremble, little lion man, you'll never settle any of your scores."

"Your grace is wasted in your face; your boldness stands alone among the wreck. Now learn from your mother, or I'll spend your days biting your own neck."

This wasn't fair.

"But it was not your fault, but mine—"

This wasn't fair.

"And it was your heart on the line—"

He dug the heels of his palms into his eyes, willing oxygen into his blood.

"I really messed it up this time, didn't I, my dear?"

Why couldn't he just breathe?

The music swelled, reverberating from the girls' rolling voices and through the air, making the wall shake at Blaine's back.

A hand suddenly clamped down on Blaine's shoulder, making him jump. Mr. Schue was looking down at him with his brows furrowed in concern, and God, Blaine hated that look.

"Blaine, are you all right? Sam asked me to check on you."

"I-I, uh…" Blaine stammered, blinking several times as the lights from the stage flashed against his retinas.

"Are you sick?"

"No, I—"

"If you're not feeling well, I can talk to Mike and see if he'll take over your parts for the next two numbers; he knows all the words and—"

Blaine shook his head quickly. He was fine. He had to be fine.

"But it was not your fault, but mine!"

Because none of this really had anything to do with him.

"And it was your heart on the line!"

It wasn't his problem. So, for God's sake, why couldn't he let it go?

"Weep for yourself, my man—"

"Tremble, little lion man—"

"It was not your fault, but mine—"

Mr. Schue squeezed his shoulder, trying to keep him focused. "Blaine," he said. "If you're sick, you need to tell me now."

Blaine cleared his throat, shaking his head again. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs to their capacity before standing up straight. "I'm okay."

"What's going on, Blaine?"

"I really messed it up this time, didn't I, my dear?"

Blaine pulled his fingers through his hair, setting his shoulders back. "I'm okay," he repeated. Let it go. Please, just let it go. Be fine. "I'm okay."

"So basically, you spend every week in the hospital and every weekend at home?" Quinn asked, sitting at the counter island in Kurt's kitchen, sipping orange soda. Kurt stood on the other side of the island, drinking a diet Pepsi from the can. They could still hear the TV in the living room where Burt was absorbed in a basketball game.

"Pretty much," Kurt said.

Quinn dropped her chin into her hand. "That sounds exhausting."

"Trust me, it's the least of my worries," he muttered, glancing out the window.

She made a noise of agreement in the back of her throat, running a finger around the rim of her glass. "Out of curiosity, Kurt, are you applying to college this year?"

Kurt's response was slightly bitter. "That's another thing at the bottom of my worry-list."

Quinn swallowed, frowning into her glass as she bit her tongue and took another gulp of her soda.

"What?" Kurt prompted, no doubt uncomfortable with the look on her face.

Quinn shook her head, the glass clinking as she set it down. "Sorry, I'm just… still confused by all this."

Kurt pinched the bridge of his nose. "Quinn, I really don't want to talk about it," he said wearily.

Quinn's jaw tensed and she sat back irritatedly on her stool. "Oh, come on, don't do that," she huffed.

"Hey, this is all my business, all right?" Kurt snapped. "Not yours."

"I know it's your business, but if you keep bringing it up, then don't get mad at me for asking," Quinn retorted.

A muscle in Kurt's cheek twitched, barely visible, but he remained tight-lipped.

"You called me a cheap trailer-trash whore in the middle of the Lima Bean," Quinn said, forcing her voice to relax. "I know it's your business, but I'd still like to know why. If you want to talk about it."

There was a beat of silence, and then from the door, "Everything okay in here?" Burt had stepped away from the TV and was leaning into the kitchen, glancing between Quinn and Kurt.

"We're fine, Dad."

"You sure?" Burt asked, casting a guarded look in Quinn's direction.

"Just a minor spat between friends," Kurt assured him, and after a moment's hesitation, Burt acquiesced and left the two of them alone again.

"You could have let him kick me out," Quinn said.

"I don't need my dad to fight my battles for me," Kurt countered, not quite meeting Quinn's eye (she was mildly offended that this conversation qualified as a 'battle', but she supposed it was justified). Kurt sighed and pulled himself onto a stool opposite Quinn. "You're right; I'm sorry," he said tiredly. "I don't mean to be such an ass when I'm stressed, but I still come across as one a lot of the time. I'm working on it."

Quinn nodded in acceptance. "Okay."

Kurt's fingernails clicked as they picked anxiously at one another, his hands resting on the countertop. "I'm really not ready to talk about it," he started slowly. "At least, not everything, especially with you – no offense—"

"None taken."

"—but I think… I can try to explain it."

Quinn sat up a little straighter, ignoring the mild apprehension tugging on the base of her stomach. "I'm listening."

Sam was worried. Like, really worried. He didn't pretend to even vaguely understand what was going on in the Hudson-Hummel house because of Kurt and his issues, but Blaine seemed to be spiraling out of control while desperately trying to keep anyone from noticing.

Well, Sam was never the most observant or the smartest person in any given group. But he thought the rest of their friends had to be absolute morons if they didn't see the way Blaine had been practically collapsing and then, like a light switch, simply straightened his shoulders, swallowed, and lined up with the rest of the group as the Troubletones drew their performance to a close.

As they waited off to stage right, Sam edged back around Mike to stand next to Blaine, lightly clapping him on the back. "You doing all right, man?"

Blaine nodded, exhaling heavily. "Better now," he said. "Thanks."

Sam would have pressed for more details, but the Troubletones' song had finished and the rest of New Directions received their cue to take the stage. An electronic beat pounded through the floor as Sam took his place beside Sugar, several reddened spotlights twirling across the stage in time with the music, turning their costumes from lavender to deep violet.

"Started in the morning – my head was getting hazy, couldn't keep my feet on the ground," Tina began, the skirt of her dress floating around her legs as she spun. "She was making love to the mirror in the bathroom; didn't hear me talking out loud…"

Sam quickly spun Sugar around and caught her by the waist in unison with the group as Rachel cut in, taking up the vocals.

"Bubblegum, lipstick, baby's got me nervous – something's got ahold of my feet," Rachel belted, throwing her arms up in the air like she was begging for help. "You just want to go where your problems won't follow, but baby, that's okay with me."

Sam tried to watch Blaine closely as they moved forward with the rest of the boys, their voices rolling together as they chanted, "Set fire with just a little spark – that's how it goes when you're moving in the dark…"

Blaine's face was impassive, hardened as he concentrated on the performance, and Sam was already making plans to ambush Blaine later and make him talk. Or something. Anything to get him to quit being so isolated.

Brittany jumped into center-stage, grinning in the spotlight as she launched into the second verse, her feet weaving a myriad complicated steps beneath her. "Got no money still, ain't that cool? I'm the little punker who was kissing you… Forget what you heard about modern love; she's still in the mirror, honey, fixing her mug, and I'm like—"

"Set fire with just a little spark!" the boys shouted. "That's how it goes when you're moving in the dark!"

"You're not concentrating," Sugar hissed under her breath as Sam barely missed a step, almost treading on her toes.

"Sorry," Sam breathed, still trying to watch Blaine from where he was. He'd never been good at doing two things at once.

"Live fast; it's a feeling, not an art! That's how it goes when you're moving in the dark!"

Blaine spun into the center, a line of sweat beading on his forehead. "Kids kiss, statuesque, out in the street… I don't really want to be a part of your scene…"

Sam caught a glimpse of Blaine's fists clenching, and he looked like he might have forgotten that they had an audience.

"Messed up! All the same! It's less about what you say, and more looking pretty, and I'm like—"

"Set fire with just a little spark! That's how it goes when you're moving in the dark!"

Sam gripped Sugar's wrist, flinging her away and then pulling her back with a twirl. Blaine jumped back into formation, catching Santana around the waist.

"Started in the morning, my head was getting hazy, couldn't keep my feet on the ground," Santana cut in, her voice overtaking Blaine's. "Bubblegum, lipstick, baby's got me nervous… Something's got ahold of my feet! You just want to go where your problems won't follow, but baby, that's okay with me…"

Sam took a deep breath, his fingers tightening on Sugar's hip. If no one else was going to help Blaine, then it would have to be him. Blaine certainly wasn't going to help himself.

The red lighting from their third number melted away into bright gold, casting polished shadows over the entire auditorium as a fanfare of brass vibrated out from the stage speakers. The spotlight beams shattered into fragments, tumbling apart along with the singers onstage. Rachel had to suppress a smile as she danced alongside Mike – she knew this was their best performance yet. They had pulled out all the stops, and even if she wasn't singing herself, it was going to be a damn good show.

Blaine and Santana whirled into the center, their hands gripping each other's tightly as Blaine's voice echoed off the auditorium walls. "I don't like walking around this old and empty house—"

"So hold my hand, I'll walk with you, my dear," Santana followed, pressing her back against his chest. "The stairs creak as you sleep; it's keeping me awake…"

"It's the house telling you to close your eyes."

Mike grabbed Rachel under the shoulders and lifted her up, spinning her high in a circle as a bass drum pounded through the music.

"And some days I can't even trust myself… It's killing me to see you this way."

Santana grinned, her teeth flashing in the spotlight as their vocals combined, weaving in and out of one another.

"'Cause though the truth may vary this ship will carry our bodies safe to shore…"

Mike's chest was heaving under Rachel's hands as she braced herself against him, mimicking his footwork (as best she could, anyway – Mike had to be slightly nonhuman in order to pull off the moves that well) as Blaine reclaimed the lead.

"There's an old voice in my head that's holding me back – I'll tell him that I miss our little talks…"

"Soon it will be over and buried with our past," Santana promised. "We used to play outside when we were young and full of life and full of love!"

Twelve pairs of feet pounded into the floor, stomping to create a boom, boom, boom in time with the beat.

"You're gone, gone, gone away, I watched you disappear," Blaine belted, his fingers digging into Santana's hips. "All that's left is a ghost of you."

"Now we're torn, torn, torn apart, there's nothing we can do," Santana answered, yanking away from him. "Just let me go – we'll meet again soon."

Boom, boom, boom.

They were going to win. Rachel could feel it.

"Now wait, wait, wait for me – please hang around…" the entire group chanted, Rachel raising her voice in time with Mike's. "I'll see you when I fall asleep!"

As the fanfare returned, sweeping across the audience like a violent gust of wind, Rachel opened her mouth along with the rest of the group, their voices ripping from their throats and breaking in the light.

"Don't listen to a word I say! The screams all sound the same! And though the truth may vary this ship will carry our bodies safe to shore!"

"Wow, that's… a lot to take in," Quinn breathed, pressing her hands flat against the table.

Kurt nervously tore a hangnail away from his thumb with his teeth, avoiding Quinn's eye. He'd kept the majority of the details regarding his own personal history out of the conversation, somehow managing to describe his illness without describing the specific reasons for it, but he was pretty sure Quinn was able to fill in the blanks without his help and the idea of her doing so made him severely uncomfortable.

Quinn was quiet for a moment, probably working through all the new information in her head and trying to make sense of it. "I'm not sure I understand fully," she said after a minute. "But… that sounds really, really scary."

"And you wonder why I don't believe in God," Kurt mumbled.

Quinn's eyebrows knitted together, still deep in thought, and she rested her chin in her hand, staring pensively out the window. "Well… personally, I would've believed in God even more if I were in your shoes," she mused aloud.

Kurt bristled, immediately annoyed again at the notion that Quinn could plant herself in his shoes at all.

"I'm not saying you should or anything, Kurt," she amended quickly. "I guess I'm just… confused as to why you wouldn't."

"I don't want God, Quinn," Kurt insisted, his throat tight.

"Why not?"

Kurt sighed, running his hands through his hair. "Did you know that most people with DID don't even start showing symptoms until they're in their late twenties or thirties?" he said, his fingers anxiously tracing the outline of his tattoo against his neck. "And that doesn't even include the personality switches – those come later." He swallowed, glancing at the floor. "My first alter showed up when I was eleven."

Quinn's mouth pressed into a thin line.

"I didn't suffer years and years of abuse like those people did. I wasn't attacked by anyone in my family. I was stuck with some random guy for two weeks, and now because of that, I've got a bunch of fake people rattling around in my head. Do you have any idea how weak that makes me?"

Kurt tried not to acknowledge how his voice had cracked slightly, praying that Quinn wouldn't notice.

"No offense," he said, gritting his teeth, "but I'm not going to waste my time clinging to a superstition for help. I've got my dad, I've got Carole and I've got Finn. I don't need God, and I don't want him."

Quinn watched him for several seconds in silence, and Kurt could practically hear the gears in her head rapidly spinning. He didn't want her sermons or her pity, and he was just praying that she'd get the message.

Then, Quinn clasped her hands in her lap and quietly spoke, making Kurt's throat squeeze shut.

"I think you're a lot stronger than me."