I'm not a princess
This ain't a fairy tale
I'm not the one you'll sweep off her feet
Lead her up the stairwell

This ain't Hollywood
This is a small town
I was a dreamer before you went and let me down

Now it's too late for you and your white horse
To come around

-White Horse, Taylor Swift

Blaine Anderson couldn't tell you about the day he was drafted into the army at just 18 years old.

He couldn't tell you how many tears his mother had shed, or how sad and forlorn his brother had looked.

He couldn't tell you how his father had clapped him on the shoulder and said that it was about time he became a man.

He couldn't tell you how as he was boarding the plane, he'd embraced his mother in a long hug and told her it was going to be okay, that he was going to come back.

Or how his older brother Cooper had sobbed into his shoulder, smacking his arm lightly, joking about how he had better come back for his wedding in a year.

He couldn't tell you how he'd simply shaken his father's hand, a stern, firm handshake that came from years and years of his father doing the same, simple gesture with countless other lawyers.

Blaine Anderson could tell you none of those things. They were things only he knew, things he kept to himself.

He wouldn't tell you about the day he got shot in the shoulder, or how it had permanently stiffened his shoulder, causing him to be discharged immediately.

And he would be lying if he told you he wasn't relieved about that.

He would also be lying if he said that his three years in war hadn't hardened him, that they hadn't changed him.

But he knew that they hadn't changed him in the same way it affected other people. He didn't have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, nor was he any less emotional than before.

It was just something about watching someone else die by his own hand that changed him. It showed him how valuable life was – ironic enough, since he took someone else's life – and how any moment could be your last.

Blaine also realized that he never wanted to cause anyone harm ever again.

So Blaine would tell you, but only in secret, that he was glad he was discharged from the army.

Stepping off of the plane, Blaine knew he stuck out. He was still in his uniform with his arm in a sling in the middle of Ohio.

Glancing around, Blaine saw several other soldiers all surrounded by their families, something in the back of his mind telling him they'd done another draft, and that these were the new men, getting ready to board the plane that was going to take them to a new kind of hell.

These new soldiers glanced at him, bowing their heads in respect as they took in his wounded arm, the scars on his face, the firm, broad way he held himself. Each of them made and held eye contact briefly, Blaine nodding to each of them, wishing them a silent good luck.

No one was waiting at the airport for him, because no one knew he was coming home. It was a rather rash decision on his base's part. As soon as the words 'partially immobile' had come out of the medic's mouth, the general was signing his papers of discharge and setting him up for the next flight to Ohio. There was no time to contact any family or friends – and whether or not his friends would even remember him after three years oversees.

But he was back now, and as he made his way out of the airport, he was thankful he didn't have any bags. He wouldn't have been able to carry them, anyway.

As he neared the entrance, Blaine glanced behind him, watching as all of the newly drafted soldiers boarded the plane. He could barely remember the day that had been him leaving his family behind. He vaguely remembered how his hands had been shaking, how hard his heart had been thumping in his chest.

But that was the past. He was back now, and he wasn't going back.

Blaine, whilst turning back around, crashed into another body. He hissed with pain as the body jostled his shoulder, closing his eyes in an attempt to stop himself from collapsing onto the floor due to the searing pain in his arm.

"Oh, man, I'm sorry, I'm just in a hurry and my plane's about to leave, and I really can't miss it…"

Blaine opened his eyes, his eyebrows raising as he took in the figure in front of him. He was probably around Blaine's age, a good few feet taller, but wearing a similar uniform. Blaine understood immediately, he really couldn't afford to miss the plane.

"I understand," Blaine said firmly, nodding his head at him. "I don't even want to know what would happen if you were to miss it."

The man laughed, but Blaine could see the stress in his eyes. It was the same stress that was in every soldier's eye every day – fear of dying, fear of not returning home, fear of leaving loved ones behind.

Blaine clasped his shoulder – even if it was a ways above his own shoulders – and started to continue his exiting of the airport.

"Wait," the man said. Blaine turned around, only to find him jogging back over to Blaine. "This is going to sound weird…I'm sorry, I don't think I got your name."

"Blaine Anderson," Blaine replied smoothly.

"I'm Finn Hudson," he replied smoothly. "Anyway," he went on. "This is going to sound weird considering I've barely talked to you, but you seem like a good guy, and…"

"Just spit it out, Finn," Blaine laughed, and god, he hadn't actually laughed in ages.

"Look, my stepbrother…He's around our age and – he doesn't have anyone. Our parents died in a car accident a year ago, and then I got drafted and…He's all by himself, Blaine."

Blaine nodded, but he had no idea where Finn was trying to go with this.

"Can you – Could you maybe look after him?" Finn asked. "I'm all he has anymore, and – I'm not even going to be there for him."

Blaine looked at Finn, his creased forehead and the fear, the worry swimming in his eyes. "Sure," Blaine replied. "You don't think he'll find it weird that a stranger is suddenly befriending him?"

Finn laughed, but it didn't fully reach his eyes. "Oh, he will," he said. "He definitely will. But he should open up to you eventually."

Blaine nodded, and accepted the piece of paper with the address of what Blaine assumed was his brother on it.

"His name's Kurt Hummel," Finn said after a moment, glancing at his watch anxiously. "But – shit I should have told you this first – he's gay. I'm sorry if it makes you uncomfortable, you don't have to if it does," Finn rushed out.

Blaine's eyes widened because, in all his years of living in Ohio, he thought he was the only person subjected to being gay in Ohio.

"That's okay," Blaine said softly, meeting Finn's eyes. "I – I'm gay too."

"Oh," Finn stuttered for a moment before nodding. "Well then, don't like, try and corrupt him or anything. He only had a few boyfriends during his brief year in New York before our parents died, and –"

"Finn, don't worry," Blaine chuckled. "I'll look out for him, alright? I'll tell him you asked me to."

Finn nodded, clasping Blaine's good shoulder gently before turning towards where the others were boarding the plane.

"Oh, and Finn?" Blaine said.

The man turned around, looking at Blaine expectantly.

"Be careful," Blaine said slowly. "It's rough, where you're going."

Finn gulped and nodded, eyeing Blaine's shoulder.

"Bullet to the shoulder," Blaine explained, knowing that's what Finn was thinking. "Partially immobile now."

"So if I were to come home, all I would need to do was get shot?"

Blaine looked back up at Finn, his eyes hard. "Not everyone is as lucky as I am," he said, his voice stern and low. "I don't suggest that's what you do."

Finn nodded again and then turned to board the plane.

Blaine clasped the slip of paper with Kurt Hummel's address in his hand, wondering what in the world he had just gotten himself into.