If you asked anyone about Blaine Anderson, the first thing they would comment on would be his smile. It’s bright and ever-present, beautiful and white, and it lights up his whole face, and sometimes the whole world. It can make anyone’s day a little bit better, because Blaine Anderson is just a happy guy, pure and simple.

That’s what they would tell you, but it couldn’t be any further from the truth.

In reality, Blaine Anderson was miserable. No one would say he had any reason to be, and sometimes he felt stupid for it, himself, but it was something he simply couldn’t help. He had no control over his life—his school, Dalton, was chosen for him by his father, equal parts the result of the bullying that landed him in a coma for a week and because his father couldn’t handle having a fag in his house.

As this thought passes through his head, his closed fist slams onto his desk, making the carefully organized rows of little white pills fall into disarray.

“It’s not like I chose to be this way,” Blaine whispers into the silence of the room, his eyes locked on the chaos of white tablets, looking so harmless—a little bit like candy, the kind you were given when you were young and could be entertained for hours by a set of sugar tablets wrapped in brightly colored foil.

Dalton was supposed to be a safe haven, a place where he could make his own choices. But then, he was sucked into the Warblers; he thought it would be nice, at first, but in reality, the Warblers were nearly as intense as Vocal Adrenaline. They push for perfection, meaning that they practice for hours a day, expect perfect grades, and then throw a fit when his appearance is anything less than completely put together, even after three consecutive all-nighters just to finish his homework. He was “gifted” the position of lead soloist, with this single room to go with it, but that only means the hold they have on him gets a little stronger and the noose around his neck a little tighter.

Noose. How fitting.

Blaine stares at the pills and contemplates the best way to go about this. Should he take them dry? Should he swipe a bottle of alcohol from one of the older students, the way that they deal with the stress of being a Warbler? Maybe that will make it easier, but he doesn’t really have the time.

Time. Blaine glances at his watch, set to go off in ten minutes. The Warblers have a surprise performance in the senior wing, and he’s expected to be there.

And when Blaine thinks about it, ten minutes isn’t nearly enough time. Whatever his plan ends up being, it will have to wait until a little bit later, until this one last performance is over for the adoring new students, most of which will never know what it’s really like—being in the spotlight.

Blaine bites the inside of his lip until it bleeds. He would bite his tongue, but that would affect his vocals, and, really, that’s the last thing he needs.

He stares longingly at the pills, even as he picks up his bag in preparation to leave, glances back as he swings it over his shoulder and mourns the fact that he still has a few more hours left to go, a few more miserable hours—and then he can go… wherever. Wherever it is that dead people go, if they go anywhere at all beside a casket. Wherever it was that Cameron went; poor, sweet Cameron, whose only crime was holding his hand with a shy smile and a gentle blush, and who paid for it with his life.

Blaine bit harder, rolling the blood in his mouth until it was all he could taste.

His father probably won’t even show up to his funeral. Blaine thinks that’s just fine. The Warblers will mourn the loss of a soloist, and for a while, it would probably leave the whole school shell-shocked—as far as Blaine knew, no one had ever committed suicide on campus before.

Well, let him be the first. That might be the only thing he gets that will ever be truly his.

He closes his door behind him, pushing through the crowd of students as he descends the stairs, through a chorus of excited voices as the message spreads like a flame—the Warblers are performing, can you believe it? Just for us! Oh, wow. I wish I could be one of them.

“No, you don’t,” he mutters under his breath, but no one pays him any mind. Until he is standing at the front of the group, no one knows who he is. He’s just Blaine. Just another invisible boy.

“Excuse me,” a voice says behind him, tinged with worry, and for a moment, Blaine feels panicked. Had someone heard him? Did they see something in him and know what he’s planning to do? What if everything is ruined?

He turns and he feels the world stop.

The words, “Hi—can I ask you a question? I’m new here,” barely register in his mind as his mouth drops open the slightest bit, and he wonders for a brief moment if this boy is his guardian angel, even though Blaine has never believed in them until this very moment.

Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s reaching out his hand for the other boy to take. “My name is Blaine,” he says shakily, barely able to make eye contact with eyes that are—how can anyone have eyes that blue? He can’t be real. This has to be some sort of dream. Maybe I took the pills, maybe I’m fading right now. If this is what’s waiting for me, then I’m glad to go.

“I’m—I’m Kurt,” the boy answers in soft surprise, a tentative smile pulling at his mouth, something beautiful and shining like hope in his eyes. It’s something Blaine hasn’t seen in a very long time.

Not since Cameron.

“So, uh, what exactly is going on?” The angel asks, and even though Blaine is bitter and jaded and so, so ready to just let go of this life, he can’t help but smile.

“Warblers,” he says, trying his very best not to sound resentful. “Every now and then, they throw an impromptu performance in the senior commons. It tends to shut the school down for a while.” There’s a soft, hidden sneer at the end, and he turns his head toward the moving crowd so this beautiful person who can’t possibly be real—Kurt—doesn’t see it.

“So, wait—” the boy says in surprise. “The glee club here is kind of… cool?” He sounds hesitant, and Blaine doesn’t blame him. If he’s really a new student, he doesn’t have any idea what torture the Warblers really is.

“The Warblers are like…” he searches for the correct word. “Rockstars.” Yes, drug addicts and alcoholism all around. Rockstars is the perfect word for it.

The boy stares at him, and Blaine feels a chill go down his spine. There’s something about this boy, this young man, this… Kurt, that makes him feel—dare he say it—alive.

And there’s something in his eyes that reminds Blaine of himself in the very worst of ways. It’s that haunted, aching look, so very carefully hidden, but visible to those who know what to look for. And oh, does Blaine know.

Like before, he can’t stop himself from reaching out and grasping the boy’s wrist, careful not to clench his hand around this perfect person and never let go, like he so desperately wants. “Come on, I know a shortcut,” he says instead, and feels the thrill of accomplishment that he hasn’t felt in so long as Kurt follows with a smile.

And later, as he’s singing and dancing with more emotion and energy than he ever has, and he can see the gleam of approval in the council’s eyes and the slight bit of beautiful, uplifting hope in those of his teammates, Blaine feels a little bit of pride.

And when an unnamed emotion and a shaky smile graces the face of the boy who’s undoubtedly saved him, Blaine’s stomach erupts in butterflies and knows that he never, ever wants Kurt out of his life, and that he will do anything to make sure that Kurt stays close, no matter what it takes—hours of driving, sacrificing even more of his nonexistent sleep—just anything.

Kurt is perfect, and Blaine will never let him go.

Upstairs on his desk, the jumble of pills lays forgotten.