WARNING: This chapter deals with self-harm. As in, you know, cutting. One of the characters cuts himself. Just a heads-up. I'd appreciate a review because this is my first time trying to right heavy stuff like that.

Anyway, enjoy the chapter!

Three Weeks Later (Rachel: 14 Weeks - Others: 12 Weeks)

"It's a girl!" Tina squealed happily, rushing into the choir room. She was automatically greeted with a hug from Mercedes, and the two girls squealed with contentment. They pulled apart and jumped cheerily for a short moment before sitting down next to each other.

"So, what have we got so far?" Quinn asked. "Three girls and three boys, right?"

Rachel nodded. "We're just awaiting the gender of Santana's baby."

"I'm going to the doctor tonight," Santana explained, "so we'll know later."

"I'm so glad she's a girl," Mercedes commented, caressing her baby bump. "I've always wanted a daughter. This is going to be great."

Quinn pursed her lips. "I wasn't expecting two boys, but I'm not upset. Sam will be happy, at least."

"What about you, Britt?" Rachel asked the blond. "Are you happy it's a girl?"

Brittany frowned. "No. I can't name it Leo."

Santana rolled her eyes.

"Well, now I guess it's time for you girls to pick out names!" Rachel exclaimed happily, leaping to her feet. She stood where Mr. Schuester usually did when he talked to the club. Rehearsal had just ended, but the girls had all stayed back because they were waiting for Tina; she'd had an ultrasound appointment to figure out the gender of the baby. The girls had told her that they'd be eagerly waiting in the choir room when she got back, no matter what time it was. Luckily, she'd gotten there just after four-thirty, right as all the boys and Mr. Schuester left.

Tina was doodling on her notebook when Rachel mentioned picking out names. She was halfway through sketching out a skull on the cover when she looked up at Rachel. "I've still been thinking of using Evelyn ever since we had that sleepover, like, a month ago."

"Fantastic! So will you use it?" Rachel asked her.

Tina shrugged. "Yeah," she giggled. "I guess so."

"Evelyn Rose," Mercedes suggested. "How pretty is that?"

"Perfect!"

"I was thinking about using Christian for one of the twins," Quinn piped up. "What do you guys think of that? Or as a middle name. Either way, I like it."

Suddenly, Mercedes got excited. She gasped, bouncing in her chair. "Oh! You know what name is really cute? Jordan Christian! Works with Evans, too, if you ask me."

Tina shared a smile with Rachel, both of them giving Mercedes a look of approval. Brittany loved the name suggestion. Her mouth was slightly agape and her eyes shone with excitement. The girls had to admit that none of them were very good when it came to naming things—Quinn's childhood stuffed lamb was named Lamb Chop, for goodness' sake—but Mercedes seemed to be a natural.

"You're good at this. Since when are you a baby-naming expert?" Santana questioned from where she was seated. Unlike the others, she lacked a look of total surprise, but she still approved of Mercedes' suggestions.

Mercedes shrugged. "I've always been good at it. When I was ten and my aunt was pregnant, I went up to her with a name for the baby and she actually used it," she explained. "I'm naming my little girl Faith Amelia. Using my last name, of course, because I'm not getting with Artie anytime soon."

"Britt, you should think of using the name Brianna," Quinn said.

Rachel beamed. "Brittany and Brianna Pierce! How precious!"

Santana nodded. "Brianna fits a little Britt."

The girls continued tossing names back and forth. After several disagreements and a lot of confliction, each and every one of them agreed on what they would be naming their kids. Rachel felt relieved; a weight had been lifted off of everyone's shoulders. This could count as a meeting of the pact, right? Well, it was only the girls, but Rachel would still count it.

Finn stood in the middle of the bathroom, staring at himself in the full-length mirror behind the door. He was just so awkward and gangly and klutzy. Sometimes being tall was an advantage. Finn could reach the top shelf of pantries and see on top of refrigerators and stuff. But he stood out so easily, no matter how hard he tried to blend in with the crowd when he sometimes so desperately wanted to stay unnoticed. He lifted up his shirt and his eyes stayed locked on his torso. He wasn't overweight—he was physically fit—but he wasn't buff like Sam. He wanted the six-pack that you could bounce a quarter off of. He wanted what Sam had.

He also wanted Sam's love, but he knew he wasn't going to get that, either.

Finn sighed, pulling his shirt back down with a huff. His gaze lingered over his facial features. He'd never really thought of himself as ugly until right now. As he examined every little detail of his face, each tiny beauty mark, he couldn't help but feel hideous in comparison to other people. Again, he wanted to be like Sam. People made fun of Sam's lips but Finn thought they were the boy's most attractive feature. Finn wanted the blond hair girls swooned over. He wanted those light, melt-your-heart blue eyes. He wanted an idiosyncratic feature that made him who he was, like Sam's mouth did Sam. Finn's mother always told him that he had distinct cheekbones that looked like they could cut glass. He never knew what that meant, exactly.

That was another thing. He was so dumb. He never understood things, even when people tried so hard just to help him get it. It frustrated him, especially when he had no clue what somebody was saying and everyone else did. It left him feeling out-of-it, and he hated that feeling more than words could even describe, really. He liked to be included and knowing what people were talking about. But it wasn't often that he had that feeling.

He would have to smarten up if he was going to be a dad. Raising a child took smarts, which Finn had, in his own opinion, very little of. All he wanted was to be insanely muscular like Sam. He wanted to be good-looking like Sam. He wanted common sense like Sam.

Finn wanted to be Sam Evans.

He sighed heavily, sitting down in the middle of the bathroom floor. He reached up and pulled open the top-right drawer, feeling around in the back. Nobody looked in this drawer; there was nothing useful in it. Well, nothing useful until now. Finn found what he was looking for, closing his slightly shaking fingers around it and pulling it out of the drawer without looking at it.

Finn's breathing quickened to some extent as he dared himself to look down at the object in his hand. It wasn't to be fooled with, and Finn would do no such thing with it. This was strictly what he knew he had to do. He put the object down gently beside him and used his right hand to roll up the left sleeve of his hoody to his elbow, right above where his cast ended. Then he picked up the object again, his hand still trembling. He gulped, pulled off his arm sling, and it took all of his strength to position the edge of the cold blade underneath his cast, right against the skin of his wrist. He stared at it for a moment before his heartbeat rose and he had to turn his head away from the sight.

This is because you're fat, he thought, and he added pressure to the edge of the blade. He gasped the second the sharpness broke his skin. He wanted to turn back, to throw the blade away and tell his mom that he'd "just gotten a little cut, that's all." But he couldn't. This was for the best, to make him feel better. He ran the blade along his wrist and, for a moment, the physical pain took away from the psychological pain. Finn just wanted the heartache to go away. And this was working. The stinging feeling in his wrist was pulling all the hurt away from the burning in his heart. He lifted up the blade and pressed it gently against the skin that was still intact directly beneath the new wound. He didn't have much room to work with because his cast caused limitations, but it'd do.

This is because you're fat. This time, Finn forced himself to look as he pushed the blade against his skin even harder than last time, running a slit along his wrist that was longer than the first. He hissed as the stinging tingles it sent throughout his body, but the physical hurting was better than his internal pain. He started a new gash and silently said in his mind, This is because you're stupid.

As Finn got ready to cut one last wound, his hands quaking more than he ever thought they would, he gulped and closed his eyes.

"This is because Sam doesn't love you," he growled out loud. With that, he cut deep into the skin of his arm, creating a gash at least four inches long. Dark red flowed out as the blade moved, and Finn cursed under his breath, dropping the utensil. He got to his feet and pulled a long trail of toilet paper off of the roll, wiping away all the blood. He held the paper against his wounds for ten long minutes before the bleeding stopped. He threw away the evidence and put the blade back where it was. He put his sling back on and sat down on the floor again.

It was kind of hard for Finn to come to terms with what he'd just done. He'd forced the physical infliction of pain upon himself because he was an awful person and everyone hated him. Nobody wanted to spend time with someone so ugly and awkward and brainless. Especially not Sam, who had much better things to do with his life, all of which didn't include being gay. Finn knew that Sam was straight but he would never fully want to believe it. He loved the kid, for God's sake; what else could he do but hope?

Finn looked down at his arm. The wounds were hidden by his sling. By the time of his next doctor's appointment, the gashes would be healed. Finn could hide this. He'd be fine. And so what if people found out, anyway? He had reasons to do this.

It was okay as long as it made Finn feel better.