Blaine sits in his car, his hands shaking as he re-reads the text message from his mother.

“Your father’s coming home for the weekend. Do you want to stay at Wes’ place, or stay at home?”

Drew Anderson hasn’t been home for longer than a day since he’d walked out on the family, and Blaine dreads every minute he’s forced to spend with his father. Drew’s only become more spiteful since he’s left, only returning to fight with Maria over the boys’ education or finances, or to take Will on a day-long trip. He’s taken to bringing Will home with him, not bringing him back to Maria’s until days have passed. It’s some bizarre custody agreement they’re working out with Drew’s lawyers, but Blaine can’t be bothered to figure it out-his father never spends time with him, and Blaine prefers it that way.

Blaine hasn't been feeling right for weeks now. Jason’s urged him to make another appointment with Dr. Friedlander, to get his medication evaluated and adjusted. He’s scheduled extra sessions and meetings, kept Blaine longer and asked harder questions. Blaine knows that Jason has noticed, that Jason is worried. He thinks he’s skirted the worst though, until Wes corners him before school and starts asking about his therapy sessions.

“Blaine, how are you? Really? You seem-more off than usual.”

“Wes, I’m fine. I promise.”

“Did you take your meds today?”

“Yes, mom, I took them.”

“Blaine-”

“I swear, Wes. You want to check the bottle, count my pills?”

“Blaine, you know I’m only trying-I want you to get better, I care about you.”

“I know, Wes. I’m-I’m doing better, I’m just having a rough day, you know? They still happen, even on these meds. They aren’t a miracle drug, there isn’t a quick fix.”

“I know, Blaine. I just-you’re still seeing Jason, right? Working on everything, on talking and not-”

“I’m trying, Wes. I really am. It’s just-this is hard. I’ve been struggling with this for years now. I'd rather hurt myself than talk. It’s not easy to be gay, not in this town, this community. I’m just-I’m tired. Tired of fighting, of struggling, tired of being who I am.”

“I get that, Blaine. I know I’m straight, but I get how hard this is for you.”

“Do you, Wes? Do you really? You say that, hell everyone, Jason, my mother-they all say that, but I don’t know how much you really get. Do you wake up and wish you were someone else? Do you pray to God that you’ll wake up ‘normal,’ that you’ll wake up as what everyone else says you should be?”

“No, Blaine, I don’t. I don’t know-”

“Wes, I just need to be alone for awhile, okay? I’m tired of you breathing down my neck, tired of my mom walking on eggshells around me, tired of teachers looking at me with pity, as that ‘poor depressed gay kid.’ I’m just-I’m sick of it all, okay?”

“Blaine, you know that I don’t pity you. You know that I only want-”

“Wes, I swear to you right now I will not do anything tonight. I will not cut, I just-I need some time to sort things out-alone.”

“Blaine, please, please call me. Anytime, midnight, two, whenever. If you’re thinking of cutting again, of-of killing yourself, call me, Blaine. Please.”

Blaine opens the CD case he keeps his supplies in, replaying his conversation with Wes over and over again. He hurts, and he’s tired. Jason is pushy, wants him to replay every detail of his coming out, wants him to talk about getting gay-bashed and driven from his public school, wants him to cry about his father’s leaving. Wes wants him to “just get better,” and his mother just wants it to go away. Blaine’s not sure any of them want what’s best for him.

He knows that there’s a better way to deal with this, a better way to express himself. Jason has given him books upon books upon sheets upon pamphlets with titles like “Alternatives to Self-Injury” and “What to do when you want to cut?” He’s tried ice cubes, rubber bands, even that stupid butterfly project he’d read about online. He’s made playlists, gone on runs and taken out his frustrations on a punching bag, a pillow, Wii Boxing.

Nothing feels the same as the blade sliding across his skin, even the ones they claim give similar sensation or release the same neurotransmitters or whatever. The ones that don’t involve direct physical sensation are useless to him, (“go for a run,” what the fuck is that going to help?) and the ones that do don’t offer the right sensation. He aches for it sometimes, in a way he can’t put into words. He misses it.

So he pulls out a blade, ignoring the voice in the back of his head that is shouting at him to put it down and call Wes, call Jason, call anyone. He sets the case to the side and balances the chosen blade on top, shucking his blazer and tossing it in the backseat. He quickly rolls up his left sleeve to the elbow, baring his forearm. He bites his lip, taking in the fading and faded marks before picking up the blade.

He misses cutting, but misses it especially on his forearms. The time Wes’d found him was the first time since he’d been turned in at the hospital, because until Wes he’d been cutting on his hips and torso. The feeling isn’t the same-the skin is stretched more thinly over his hip bones, it slices open too quickly. He hates how the ones on his stomach rub against his waistband, and the ones on his thighs just don’t feel the same. He likes the feel of the skin on his forearm, likes the familiarity with which it opens and the sensation he gains as he cuts.

Blaine sets his jaw, places the blade against his skin and draws it lightly across his arm, barely hard enough to scratch. He always starts this way-the initial build up of pain is good, it gives him the high he’s looking for before he goes deeper, seeks out the deeper pain. He’s never cut vertically (“across the tracks, not down the street” or whatever the saying is that Tommy Mitchell in his first rehab stint kept singing), only horizontally.

He sighs, his eyes falling closed as he does it a few more times. He lets his mind drift when the stinging starts, and he immediately feels the overwhelming despair that’s been consuming him lately. It’s happened somewhat suddenly-it’s been months since he’s felt this bad, this desperate. Vague label and side effect warnings swim through the haze in his mind (increased risk of suicide in children and young adults) but Jason hasn’t brought it up, so it can’t be something he really needs to worry about.

Several minutes-hours?-later, his arm’s only stinging and he’s not yet reached the plateau of relief he’s looking for. It’s been awhile, but he thinks he should still be able to find that relief, that it shouldn’t be taking this long. It feels like another in a long list of failures (and giving in in the first place, that’s another) and Blaine suddenly feels hopeless. He sees nothing beyond the droplets of blood on his arm, the sheer despair filling him.

He’s felt like this, truly like this, once before. He recognizes the feeling, knows he’s in trouble. This is what landed him back in the hospital with an NG tube and a psych hold, and Blaine knows he’s about to cross an invisible line. But nothing seems to matter beyond the pain, and Blaine wonders if it might be easier to stop everything. To let himself fall and not wake up, to stop fighting and trying. He’s exhausted.

They never told him getting better would feel worse than being depressed. No one mentioned how difficult it would be to get anywhere close to okay. They congratulated him on making the first step, cheered with every month “clean,” but they never told him how much fighting he’d have to do.

Blaine makes a decision, rummaging in his glove compartment and producing a two-thirds full bottle of Tylenol. He pries the cap off, dumps most of the bottle into his hand and swallows them with a sip of the cold coffee in his cup holder. He’s not sure if he wants to die, exactly, or if he just wants to stop feeling. He gives the pills a minute to kick in, and when he picks the razor back up he feels funny.

He barely notices as the blade sinks into skin, through muscle and flesh as he drags it vertically up his forearm. The pain takes a few minutes, and by the time it starts to set in there are four cuts up his arm. Blaine watches the blood for a moment, fascinated, before clamping his hand over his forearm.

He starts to realize he might have made a mistake when the blood seeps through his fingers and he feels a lick of panic when he realizes he feels nothing. There’s no pain, and there’s no sense of euphoria or relief. This isn’t what he wants. Disappearing was more than appealing barely ten minutes ago-now it’s the last possible thing he wants to do. The blood is coming too quickly, his heart is beating too fast. He wants to take it back.

Blaine grabs for his phone, his fingers slipping on the keypad from the blood as he hits the speed dial for Wes’ number. He should’ve called before, should’ve listened to that voice in his head. Because he’s not sure he hasn’t reached the point of no return, and he wants nothing more than to go back.

- - - - -

“She wears short skirts, I wear t-shirts, she’s cheer captain-”

Wes starts awake as his phone blares to life next to his head, his hand immediately shooting out to silence the ringer. He thinks-not for the first time-that he’ll never forgive himself for letting Blaine pick his own ringtone, because there are few things more embarrassing than Taylor Swift, but it’s Blaine, so Wes lets it go. He rubs his free hand over his eyes, bringing the phone into his line of sight as he flips it open, putting it to his ear.

“Blaine?”

Choked, half-stifled sobs are the only sounds coming over the phone, and Wes sits up, suddenly wide-awake as he grips the phone more tightly. He’s not exactly surprised-if he’s completely honest with himself, he’s been expecting this phone call since his conversation with Blaine earlier in the day but that doesn’t make this any less terrifying.

“Blaine, I need you to say something. What’s wrong?”

“I need help.”

It’s barely louder than a whisper, nearly drowned out by a loud sob, and Wes isn’t sure he’s heard correctly. He swallows thickly, afraid to push but afraid that if he doesn’t, he’ll forever regret the aftermath.

“Blaine, what did you do? Blaine? Talk to me, buddy, come on.”

“Wes, please, I-Wes. Please.”

He’s never heard Blaine this desperate, this broken before. Even when he’d sat with Blaine for three hours, listening to Blaine pour out every detail of his past, watched Blaine reveal every scar and mark to him-he’s never heard this level of pure defeat in his friend’s voice. His anxiety ratchets up and he’s sure he’s about to break his phone, his fingers white around it’s plastic edges as he clutches it.

“Blaine, what did you do? Blaine?”

“Wes, I-I fucked up, Wes. I fucked up.”

“Blaine, where are you? I need you to give me something, anything. Please.”

“Dalton. I’m in the parking lot. Wes, I can’t-I need-”

“Blaine, are you hurt? What did you do?”

Even as he holds the phone between his shoulder and cheek Wes is out of bed, pulling on a pair of sweats and maneuvering his arms into a sweatshirt, shoving his feet into shoes as he grabs up his car keys. He balances the phone in one hand, never letting it leave his ear as he hurries out to his car. The door slams loudly, and he thinks briefly of waking his parents before deciding that Blaine is the more pressing matter.

“Blaine, I’m on my way. Fifteen minutes, okay? I need you to talk to me though, tell me what’s going on.”

“There’s so much blood.”

Wes drops the gas pedal to the floor of the car, speeding onto the main road to Dalton as he feels his heart drop out of his chest, an uneasy weight settling into the pit of his stomach. A thousand possibilities run through his mind-maybe Blaine hadn’t hurt himself this time, he could’ve been jumped, mugged, attacked-but he always comes back to what he knows is the truth, and it makes him sick with dread.

“Blaine, what do you mean, blood? Why is there blood, Blaine? Are you bleeding?”

Blaine chokes out an affirmative answer, and Wes swears loudly, running a red light in his distraction. He keeps speeding anyway, sure that if the cops were after him they’d have found him by now.

“Blaine, you need to call an ambulance. I want you to hang up and call 9-1-1, okay? Can you do that for me?”

“I’m tired, Wes. I’m just-I’m just so tired.”

Wes is pretty damn sure that Blaine’s not talking solely about his current state, and he bites his lip, running another light as he gets closer to Dalton.

“I know, Blaine. I know, okay? I just want you to stay awake a little longer. Can you do that? Can you call someone for help, Blaine? I’m almost there but I need you-”

Wes trails off, realizing the other end of the line has gone silent. Blaine’s not crying anymore, but he isn’t speaking either. He swears again, taking his eyes from the road long enough to check if the call’s disconnected. Blaine’s name is still listed at the top of the screen, a counter below showing they’ve been talking for nearly fifteen minutes. (And Blaine’s been bleeding for that long, probably longer, Wes thinks bitterly.) He tries Blaine’s name a few more times before relenting that Blaine’s passed out, and he urges his car to go faster.

He’s pulling into the Dalton lot less than three minutes later, and he quickly spots Blaine’s car, the lone car left in the lot. He stops his car feet from Blaine’s, his door open and his phone in his hand before he’s even really put the car in park. He starts dialing 9-1-1 even as he runs to Blaine’s car, out of breath as he pulls open the driver’s side door.

He bites off a curse, taking in the state of his friend as the operator comes onto the line, her voice far too calm for the sheer panic that Wes is currently feeling. Blaine’s slumped over the steering wheel, his right arm on his lap, fingers curled loosely around a straight razor that’s edged with blood. There’s a black case open on the passenger seat, and Wes notes the array of blades and first-aid supplies before his eyes alight on the open bottle of pills-Tylenol-and the few that are scattered on the seat.

“9-1-1, state your emergency.”

Wes finally lets his eyes find Blaine’s left arm, and he almost wishes he hadn’t-the sleeve is rolled up to the elbow, baring the myriad of scars and marks already there, but the worst is the blood. Blaine’s wrist and forearm are drenched, the sticky liquid pulsing far too quickly from four nearly identical slashes along the veins; even as Wes watches the blood pools in Blaine’s palm and drips from his fingers to the pavement, fat droplets shining on the dark asphalt before sinking between the cracks, flattening. Wes reaches a shaking hand to the arm, turning it so the inside of Blaine’s wrist catches the overhead light of the car.

“Jesus Christ,” Wes hisses, nearly dropping his phone as he lets go of Blaine’s arm, feeling bile rising in his throat. Four slashes run vertically along the inside of Blaine’s arm, two of them reaching from the joint of his wrist nearly to his elbow. One of the shorter ones is deep, and Wes can’t be sure but there’s a flash of white and he convinces himself it’s open down to the bone. He can’t control himself at that and he turns from the car, takes three steps and bends over, vomiting everything he’s eaten and then some, until he’s dry-heaving, hunched over with his arms resting on his thighs.

The tinny voice coming through his cell phone’s earpiece draws his attention, and he realizes that he’s been ignoring the operator the entire time. He brings the phone back to his ear, going to wipe his mouth before catching sight of the blood on his hand and changing his mind. He kneels back at Blaine’s side, hovering uncertainly over his friend’s arm before making sense of the sounds coming through the receiver at his ear.

“Sir, I’m asking you one last time. Do you need an ambulance?”

“Jesus Christ, Blaine,” Wes hisses, ripping off his sweatshirt and wrapping it around Blaine’s arm, desperate to do anything to stop the bleeding. He sets the phone on the dashboard, clicks it to speaker and raises his voice. “He tried again.”

“Tried again? Sir, what kind of help do you need?”

“My friend slit his wrists. I need-I need someone to come, please, he needs help.”

“Where are you?”

“We’re in the parking lot of Dalton Academy in Westerville. I think-I think he took a bunch of pills too, please hurry-”

“I’ve dispatched an ambulance to your location. Can you tell me anything more about his situation?”

“There’s-um, there’s a blade and there’s four cuts, but they’re bleeding a lot, it’s everywhere and they’re too deep and I don’t-what do I do?”

“Okay, I need you to calm down. Can you tell me your name?”

“Why do you need my name, he’s the one-”

“Deep breath. What’s your name, sweetheart?”

Wes pauses at that, and realizes she’s figured out he’s young, since she’s stopped addressing him as “sir.” He takes a deep breath, his hands still shaking over Blaine’s arm as he answers.

“My name’s Wes.”

“And your friend?”

“Blaine.”

“Okay, Wes, can you tell me if Blaine is awake?”

“He passed out awhile ago. I don’t-is he going to be okay?”

“The ambulance is about five minutes away, Wes. Is Blaine breathing?”

Wes nods, before realizing she can’t see him and answers her with an affirmative. Blaine’s chest is rising and falling-barely, but if he focuses he can see the tiny movements. He lets his eyes linger on Blaine’s face a second longer, the skin incredibly pale. Blaine looks almost peaceful, if he ignores anything below the neckline of Blaine’s shirt.

“Do you have something you can use to stem the bleeding?”

“I wrapped it in my sweatshirt. How-how hard do I press, what if I hurt him, what-”

“It’s more important that you put direct pressure on them than anything else. The ambulance should be there shortly. Would you like me to stay on the line until they arrive?”

“Please.”

“How is the bleeding?”

“There’s so much of it. I can’t-he’s going to die isn’t he? He’s going to get his way this time.”

She’s quiet for a moment, and he knows-he knew as soon as he’d picked up the phone, as soon as he’d spoken to Blaine earlier in the day. Blaine is literally bleeding out in front of him, Wes’ hands the only thing slowing the process.

“You need to keep pressure on the wounds, Wes. Is the ambulance there yet?”

It’s a deflection, but he realizes it wasn’t a fair question. She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know who Blaine is, why he’d want to cut up his own arms and take his own life. Even Wes doesn’t know that, not entirely. He has inklings and ideas, but Blaine’s never told him why he does this, why it’s so appealing. Wes is sure now that he’ll never know, that he’s witnessing Blaine’s final moments even as he grips his friend’s arm in his hands, blood staining his sweatshirt and his own hands.

“Not yet.”

“It should be any minute. Keep pressing on the wounds, Wes. Is it just the one arm?”

“He only got to one. Maybe that was his plan. I don’t know. I don’t know what to do.”

Wes’ voice breaks over the last few words, and the tears he’s been holding back start to prick his eyes. His vision blurs, Blaine’s prone form swimming in front of him as he adjusts his grip, blood spilling between his fingers as he shifts.

“Shit.”

“What’s going on, Wes? What’s happened?”

“I moved my hand. There’s still so much blood. How-how can there be this much?”

“It depends on what he’s injured. Just keep holding on, okay, Wes? Are they there yet?”

As she finishes her sentence Wes’ ears pick up the first wail of a siren, and he turns to watch it pull into the parking lot, the red and blue lights washing over everything, turning the parking lot a bizarre shade of purple. The driver cuts the siren as they pull up next to the car, and Wes breathes out a sigh, grateful he’s no longer alone.

“They’re here. Th-thanks. For helping.”

“Good luck, Wes. He’s lucky you’re there with him.”

The call disconnects with that, and Wes is left to contemplate that sentiment for a moment. If Blaine were lucky, he’d never have gotten this far. If Blaine were lucky, his arms wouldn’t be a patchwork of scars and his mind wouldn’t be a minefield of dangerous emotion. If Blaine were lucky, Wes would’ve done his job as a friend and gone to the counselor immediately after speaking to Blaine. But Wes has a hard time believing the word lucky applies to Blaine at the moment, as he grips the other boy’s arm in his hands and turns to the medics who’ve rushed to their side.

“What happened?”

“I found him like this, please, you need-you need to help him, you need to save him.”

“What’s his name?”

“Blaine Anderson. He’s 16, please, I can’t-you can’t let him die.”

Wes finds himself pushed aside as the two medics start assessing Blaine. Their words wash over him, barely penetrating the haze that’s settled in his brain-words like catastrophic blood loss, extensive tissue damage, acetaminophen overdose-and he barely bats an eyelash when they toss his sweatshirt away from the car, replacing it with gauze and pressure dressings. They’ve ripped Blaine’s shirt off and Wes thinks that Blaine will be exceedingly pissed when he finds out, before his brain catches up with him and he chokes out a sob.

He finds himself sinking to the pavement, his knees no longer able to support him. Strong arms catch him, and Wes blinks, his eyes focusing on the police officer who’s lowering him to the ground, setting up behind him to support him.

“Easy, kid. You feeling dizzy?”

“When-”

“We pulled in behind the ambulance. You’ve been out of it since we got here. That your friend?”

Wes’ eyes dart back to the car, where they’ve pulled Blaine from his seat and set him on a backboard. Even as he watches they’re lifting him onto a gurney, their movements frenzied as they rush him towards the ambulance.

“Wait-”

“Kid, they need to get him to an ER, you can ride with us.”

“Let me go with him!”

Wes attempts to stand, the officer keeping a hand on his upper arm to steady him. He takes a few steps toward the ambulance, but the doors have already closed and Blaine’s inside, hidden from view. He slides back to the ground, watching as the ambulance pulls away, sirens screaming.

“What’s your name, son?”

“Wes. Please, I need-someone needs to tell his mom, she’s going-I can’t believe he’s-what if he’s already dead? I need to be-I need to go to him.”

Wes is vaguely aware that he’s not making sense, the words falling from his lips jumbling together as he clings to the officer’s arm, afraid to let go. Nothing makes sense anymore, his thoughts as jumbled as his words. He slowly becomes aware that he’s shaking, his entire body trembling.

“You’re in shock, son. You’re in no condition to drive. Let us take you, okay?”

Wes lets himself be bundled into the back of a squad car and driven from the scene, barely aware that his own car is still running and the Dalton headmaster is pulling up even as they drive away. He doesn’t come back to himself until he’s lying in a hospital bed of his own, an IV stuck in his arm and his mother at his side.

“Mom? What-”

“Wesley, what on earth were you thinking? You scared us half to death, we got a call from the police at four-thirty in the morning, and you’re in the hospital-”

“Mom, why am-what?”

“You were in shock, Wes. You fainted in the back of a police cruiser and bought yourself an IV of fluids and an appointment with a grief and trauma specialist.”

Her words are jarring, her tone harsh, and he suddenly remembers the reason he’s here. He brings his arms up, expecting to see them covered with blood still-but he’s surprised when they’re clean, the only remnants the flakes caked into his nail beds.

“They cleaned you up when they brought you in.”

“Where is he?” Wes is surprised his voice comes out as clearly as it does. It’s clear his mother does not approve of Wes’ three am trip to the Dalton parking lot, but her face softens when he asks about Blaine.

“He’s in intensive care. His mom got in shortly after I did. Wes, why were you-why did he call you?”

“I can’t-Mom, I can’t do that to him. I can’t.”

“Wesley, you owe us an explanation. You sneak out of the house at three in the morning to drive to Dalton, and you leave Dalton in the back of a police cruiser covered in your friend’s blood. Said friend is alive by a thread after what looks like a serious suicide attempt. So tell me, Wesley, why he called you.”

His mother has never looked at him like this before, a mixture of sadness, anger, and fear. He knows what’s going through her mind, knows she’s worried if this is what Blaine’s capable of, is it what Wes is capable of? He wants to reassure her, tell her everything that Blaine has told him, but he can’t, because even if Blaine’s (he can’t say dying, his brain won’t form the words) barely hanging on, he can’t betray his trust.

“Mom, I-I want to. But I promised-”

“Did you promise you’d rush to his side when he slit his own wrists like this? Did you promise you’d drop everything to find him bleeding to death in a parking lot-”

“Linda!”

Wes’ father has stepped into the room and is staring at his wife with a mixture of horror and shame. Wes is crying, his hands shaking as his mother’s voice grows louder. He understands, she’s not angry, exactly, but she’s worried and upset and she’s had one of the worst shocks of her life.

“I’m sorry. Oh, God, Wesley, I’m sorry. I don’t mean-I didn’t-I was just so scared, Wes, when they called us. I don’t-you’re not like-you don’t feel like that, do you? You’d tell us, Wes, if you did?”

“I’m not-I’m not like Blaine,” Wes whispers, and he feels his heart constrict at the words. He isn’t, because he’s never understood, no matter how much he thinks he has. He thought Blaine was better, or at least getting there. He never expected this.

“Blaine’s mother would like to speak to you,” Wes’ father speaks from the doorway once both his wife and son have calmed slightly. “She’s not allowed to see him, and she wants to hear the story from you.”

Wes nods, swallowing around the lump in his throat. He knows he should find some reserve of strength, some way he can face Maria Anderson and not break down entirely. Outside of therapists and the Dalton counselor, he’s the only one Blaine’s confided anything in, and Maria knows as much. Terry leaves the room again, returning moments later with Maria in tow. He gestures to his wife, and they leave Wes alone with Blaine’s mother.

“How is he?” Wes asks quietly, afraid to break the silence and open the dam of emotion but knowing that he has to be the one to do so.

“Not good. The cuts on his arm-they used nearly six hundred sutures. They had-they had to empty his stomach and reverse the overdose, they’ve been transfusing him the entire time he’s been here. They keep talking about clotting factors, oozing, they won’t tell me anything more than ‘we’re doing everything we can’ and ‘he’s critical but stable.’ They’ve got him on a suicide watch for the next three days.”

Maria sinks into the chair that Linda had been in previously, and drops her head into her hands, her shoulders wracked with quiet sobs.

“I can’t believe we’re here again.”

Wes has no idea where to go from there, how to proceed. He considers putting a hand out to comfort her, but draws it back when the IV tugs in the crook of his elbow. His hand falls to his side awkwardly, and he waits for Maria to speak again.

“He was doing so well.”

She looks up, her eyes seeking Wes’ as she looks for confirmation, something to reassure her that she hadn’t missed a warning sign, that Blaine was still recovering and this wasn’t her fault.

“I knew he wasn’t doing well,” Wes whispers, tearing his eyes from hers when he’s unable to offer her that reassurance. “I talked to him yesterday morning. He was stressed, he was upset-I caught him on the way to his appointment with Jason, I thought-I thought they’d sort it out, Jason would get him to open up.”

Maria is sobbing openly now, and Wes feels his own tears streaming down his face.

“I’m sorry. I should’ve-if I were a better friend, he-”

“It’s not your fault, Wes. God knows it’s not your fault.”

“But I knew-”

“So did Blaine. "

“This isn’t his fault.”

“I don’t know who to blame anymore. I tried to blame him, but I can’t. I tried to blame his father, Will, myself. I’ve blamed God, Allah, Satan, the universe. I don’t know whose fault this is.”

Wes falls silent again. They don’t tell you how to deal with this in school. There’s no “Handbook on What to Do When Your Friend Wants to Kill Himself” or “The Idiot’s Guide to Human Emotion.” No one teaches you where to go from here-Wes isn’t sure he’ll ever understand how he’s supposed to move on from this. If the worst happens-if Blaine dies-he knows for a fact that he never will.

“Why him, though?” Wes’ voice is quiet in the room, and Maria looks up at him. Wes keeps going, knowing that he’s speaking what they’re both thinking. “I just-what has Blaine done? Is this because he’s gay? Because he’s what, a singer? Why is it him? Of all the people this could keep happening to, why Blaine?”

Neither of them has an answer, but Wes keeps going, unable to stop now that he’s started. He’s rambling, everything he’s felt since he first walked into the bathroom months ago to find Blaine hunched over the sink with blood dripping down his arm.

“I don’t understand how it happened. He’s been trying, I know he has. It’s been months since he’s cut, months. I know, you know. Both of us have checked. I don’t understand why he needed to do it after that long.”

“I read once that they think it might function like an addiction, back when we first found out Blaine was-he was doing that. That people who-people who do that are as addicted as alcoholics or drug addicts. Something about pain and endorphins, the euphoric rush.”

“But shouldn’t the drugs-shouldn’t they be doing something? Helping him, making him not depressed? They’re anti-depressants, but it seems like they’ve done the exact opposite.”

“I overheard someone upstairs. There’s a warning on the label that there’s an increased risk of suicidal thoughts or tendencies in teens. They don’t-Dr. Friedlander never specified that. He never really warned us this could happen. Upstairs-the doctor on call-he was talking about it, with Blaine’s history-he didn’t leave a note, there was no indication besides his increased depression. I don’t know.”

“Do they think he’ll pull through?”

“It’s touch and go. Wes, if he hadn’t called you when he did-if you hadn’t answered-I don’t-I wouldn’t be at a hospital, I’d be-”

“Please don’t. I can’t-I don’t want to think about that.”

“Thank you, Wes. If you hadn’t-I don’t know-we have a chance to help him, for real this time.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m sending Blaine to an inpatient treatment center when he’s released. I can’t-I can’t do this, not again. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know what to do for him, how to help him. I know you’ve tried, Wes, but this can’t be your responsibility either. Clearly Jason alone can’t help him the way he needs to be helped. I just-I want him to be able to live again, and I know-this is the best way for him, Wes.”

- - - -

Wes doesn’t hear from Blaine until three weeks into his treatment program in Chicago. He keeps tabs with Maria, knows that Blaine is mostly physically healed if not emotionally a wreck, but he’s not had contact with Blaine since he’d watched the ambulance pull out of the Dalton lot.

Wes hasn’t been able to stop thinking-dreaming-about that night. He hasn’t been able to drive his car since then; he’s swapped for his mom’s mini-van, and he parks in the Dalton faculty lot when he gets to school. None of the teachers question him, just watch him walk from his car into the school building every morning with frowns on their faces.

Everyone knows what happened to Blaine, even if they’re not allowed to reveal details. They’d held an all-school assembly the Monday after Wes had returned to school, headed by the Dean and Jason, who looked heartbroken as he flipped through the powerpoint, highlighting bullets about red flags and warning signs. The Warblers have been strangely subdued in the face of Blaine’s absence, and they’ve already decided to dedicate their performance at the end of the year to Blaine.

It’s strange, that they all act like Blaine’s dead or gone forever. Wes knows that Blaine’s planning to return to Dalton if he’s emotionally ready in the fall, knows that Maria wants him to get back to some semblance of a normal life as soon as he can. Everyone else acts like Blaine is never coming back, the way they whisper almost reverently about him and remark on how sad the whole thing is.

Wes scoffs, but he never corrects them. He’s got enough to deal with, the nightmares that keep him from sleeping and the dreams washed in shades of red that haunt him daily. He talks to Jason weekly, trying to sort through everything he’s feeling and everything he’s felt. No matter how many times Maria or Jason assures him that he’s done nothing wrong, that it’s not his fault Blaine tried to kill himself, Wes feels guilty.

He can’t stop replaying the conversation they’d shared the day of the attempt. Blaine had dropped hint after hint that he was feeling desperate, but Wes hadn’t put the pieces together quickly enough. He’s not sure he’ll ever let Blaine out of his sight again once they reunite-he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to.

The first time he hears from Blaine in four weeks is in the form of a letter, sent to Dalton instead of his home address. Wes takes it into the bathroom, locks himself in a stall and opens it, reading.

Wes-

They told me I have to start owning up to my actions. That I have to realize that what I’ve done hasn’t only hurt me. I know this has been hard for you. It was hard for my mom the first time, I can’t imagine what it’s been like for you.

They’ve only told me some of that night. I know I called you, and I know you were the one who called the ambulance. I don’t know much else, except that I must’ve looked quite a mess. I will never forgive myself for letting you find me like that. I don’t know what came over me, Wes. But I’m sorry.

I’ve learned a lot here, about myself. I know you’ve never understood this, even though you’ve tried. I don’t think I’ve ever understood it either. I just know I’ve never been able to stop or to get enough. It’s never been something I can control, even though it’s been about control in the past. I think I’ve convinced myself that I have that control even though I’ve never had it.

I let myself get out of control that night. And I’ve paid for it, but so have you. I’m starting to understand that, even though I’ve convinced myself I’m only hurting myself, I’m hurting everyone else, too. I don’t want to do that anymore. I don’t want to do this to you, my mom, to anyone else.

I’m trying, Wes. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But I think, if I can do this, it will be worth it. I want to live again, Wes. I want to be a Warbler, to make fun of Jeff and Nick with you at lunch, to go to prom and dances and eventually college.

I’m not going to get better quickly. I might never get better.

But you’re one of the reasons I’m trying, Wes.

Thank you.

-Blaine

Wes folds the letter, sliding it into his bag before the tears come. It’s not catharsis-he still feels far too vulnerable and guilty to feel any form of catharsis right now-but it’s a start. The knowledge that Blaine wants to get better is something Wes can work with. The knowledge that Blaine is working, that he wants to work for this, is something that Wes hasn’t really appreciated until now.

He wipes his eyes on his blazer sleeve, straightening himself out before slinging his bag over his shoulder. He’s in the middle of physics at the moment, but he knows the teacher won’t mind him coming in late. They’ve all been walking on eggshells around him, afraid pushing him too hard will make him snap (turn him into Blaine, is the sentiment no one will voice).

Wes washes his face at the sink, and sets off for class. Blaine’s letter is one he’ll read over and over until they’re reunited in late July, but he’ll soon add other letters and phone conversations. Slowly, the well of confusion and guilt that’s been gnawing at him since he’d first caught Blaine in the Dalton bathrooms will close up, and he’ll reach a point where he can look at Blaine without flashing back to the night in the parking lot.

But for now, Wes goes to physics class then calculus, and lets himself pretend to be a normal high school student for awhile.