"We’d get further staging a gel-ervention for Blaine than singing lady music.”

“I’m trying, but your hideous bowties are provoking me.”

“You know, with all the horrible crap I’ve been through in my life, now I get to add that.”

Blaine doesn't take any of Santana's comments to heart, not even the dig at his bowties. He's always been fairly adept at reading when people are skirting the real issue, because he practically wrote the book on deflection. Santana is obviously hurting, but Blaine's willing to bet his bowties aren't the source of her pain. He's seen the way she is with Brittany, had ideas about their relationship even before Finn's oh-so-brilliant plan to sing their support for her had confirmed them.

He sees a lot of the same doubt he's experienced hidden in her eyes-what will happen to her if she comes out? What will her parents think? What will they say? What will her abuela think?

He gets it in ways Kurt hasn't been able to since Burt vowed to try his best. He'll never begrudge Kurt the relationship Kurt shares with his father, but some part of Blaine can't help but be jealous, wish his own father had made more of an effort. Could try to make more of an effort now.

It's that understanding that drives him out the door after Santana, makes him call after her in the hallway, stop her. Santana, to her credit, pauses, but doesn't turn to face him.

"You know, if you'd stop turning down help from the people who get it the most, it might not be so painful," he starts, finally catching up to her and skirting around her until he's facing her. "If you'd-"

"Shut up," she hisses, grabbing him somewhat forcefully by the upper arm and dragging him into the nearest classroom. It's the end of the day so the room is empty, the lights off. She lets go of him once they're in the room, rounds on him.

"What is your problem?" she grits out, jabbing a sharply manicured nail into Blaine's chest. "For someone who claims to get it that was a load of crap, Anderson."

"We only want to help, Santana. Kurt and I have both gone through this, we understand-"

"You understand nothing," she spits, suddenly seeming a whole lot taller as she draws herself to her full height, closing into Blaine's personal space. "That song you and lady lips sang was real cute, but that's because you two actually are perfect. Granted, I could use the grease you put in you hair to start a bonfire with your bowties, but you've never had to work a day in your life, have you? Kurt was practically born out of the closet, and his dad worships the ground he walks on.”

Blaine stiffens, her words slowly starting to get to him the longer she goes on.


“I’d bet everything I own it’s been just as easy for you. How many Jags did daddy buy you for your last birthday, huh? How much do you have put away in your trust fund? You went to Dalton, Blaine, your life isn’t exactly Lima Heights.”

She finishes with that, turns away from Blaine and stalks toward the door. He can’t pretend that her words haven’t had some effect on him, that the way everyone seems to assume, assume, assume doesn’t hurt, because it does. It always has, that people look at him and decide that he doesn’t know what it’s like to struggle.

“You don’t know me,” he says quietly, almost dangerously, aimed at Santana’s back. “Don’t presume you know anything about me.”

She pauses with her hand around the doorknob, her body tense, but she doesn’t turn. Blaine takes a step towards her, his hands dropped to his sides.

“It’s been hard for me to deal with this, too, Santana. Not all of us have dads like Burt Hummel.”


She half-turns, eyeing him out of the corner of her eye as he edges a bit closer, stopping when he’s still a foot away from her.

“Did you know I was beaten up for taking a boy to a dance? Three weeks after I came out?”

She turns fully then, regarding him more softly. She opens her mouth, as if to say something, but Blaine cuts her off.

“When I got home from the hospital that night, my parents sent me to bed so they could “talk.” I never went to sleep-I sat on the stairs and listened to them. My dad spent forty minutes telling my mom everything I’d done to deserve the cast on my arm and the three broken ribs, how the boys who’d done it were only playing around, didn’t mean anything by it. It was a prank that went too far. That was the last time he ever really talked about it-about me being gay. He didn’t kick me out-that would cause more scandal than he cared to deal with, but we haven’t-we haven’t had much of a relationship since.”


Blaine shrugs, meeting Santana’s eyes for the first time. Santana’s face has softened, and she takes a step closer, as if she’s about to say something. Blaine stops her again with a hand, smiles at her somewhat bitterly.

“I really, really don’t want your pity, Santana. This isn’t about me, it’s not about the shit relationship I have with my father. I just-if I’ve learned anything since that night, if Kurt has taught me anything-you don’t have to do this alone. No matter what happens, you’ll have support. There are people in that club who love you, Santana, and they won’t turn their backs on you.”

“You don’t know that,” she whispers, her voice close to breaking for the first time since Blaine approached her. “You can’t know that.”

“I won’t turn my back on you,” he counters, finally reaching out to her and resting a hand on her arm, somewhat awkwardly. Her face crumples, and for a split second Blaine thinks he might have gotten through, might have reached her, made a dent. He’s about to pull her into a hug when she pulls back, runs a hand over her eyes and bites her lip.

“I can’t do this.”

She’s gone before he can say anything else, leaving him alone in the empty classroom. Suddenly exhausted, Blaine sinks into an empty chair, head in his hands. He pulls off his bowtie distractedly, wonders (strangely enough) if that might prove to Santana that he means it. He’s not going anywhere, won’t go anywhere.

“Are you alright?”

Blaine looks up, startled, frantically wiping at his face. Kurt’s in the doorway, leaning against the frame and regarding Blaine carefully, eyebrow quirked in mild confusion.

“Santana.”

Kurt makes a quiet noise of understanding and crosses the room, dropping onto the desk in front of Blaine. He takes Blaine’s hands in his own, runs his thumbs over the knuckles briefly.

“How is she?”

“Everything’s just hitting her all at once. Maybe-maybe that wasn’t the best song, the best time to-”

“We did what we thought would help, Blaine. That’s all we could’ve done.”

“I just wish I could-I wish I could show her it’s not all bad, that everything doesn’t have to hurt all the time. That hiding hurts almost as badly as the words people will say. That even if your family can’t accept you, there’s someone who does. Britt will-”

“Hey,” Kurt murmurs, pulling Blaine up and into his arms. “It’s not our battle to fight right now.”

Blaine buries his face in Kurt’s neck, sighs against the skin he manages to find. Kurt holds him more tightly, not afraid for once that they’ll be seen, ridiculed, mocked.

They both understand where Santana’s fear comes from, they both understand what the fear of rejection is like. Blaine especially understands the fear of letting your family down, wondering if you'll be a disappointment in their eyes. If there's anything you can do to redeem yourself to them.

Neither of them can take any of that away, make that better, but as soon as Santana asks, they’ll be there to support her. They'll do whatever she needs them to do to help her deal with what happens.

Until then they have each other to hold onto, and that’s enough for now.