Title: They Beat the Living Crap Out of Us

Pairing: None; Blaine-centric

Rating: T for implied violence

Warnings: Angst

Author's Notes: Not much to say about this one. I posted it on my personal Tumblr and got an insane amount of positive feedback, so I decided to post it here as well, for safekeeping. Enjoy, if you can.

The doors of the emergency room burst open, a hysterical Mrs. Anderson nearly collapsing onto the cold, tiled floor of the hospital. Her husband caught her around the waist before she could fall, and she clung to him, fingers digging into the fabric so tightly that she could feel it beginning to give.

"Are you… Mr. and Mrs. Anderson?"

The kind-faced nurse stood off to the side, speaking softly and tentatively. Mrs. Anderson just stared, speechless, trying to find the right words to say. Simple dialogue - Yes, that's us - eluded her.

"Yes, that's us," her husband supplied helpfully. He cleared his throat. "How did you…?"

"You have his hair," the nurse said quietly, gesturing to her own head.

Mrs. Anderson sobbed and spun into her husband, holding tightly and crying against his shoulder.

He held her close, trying to keep his cool when he could feel his entire life crumbling around him. "Can… can we see him?"

"He's in the ICU right now," the nurse said. "But he's been conscious this whole time. He'll be out soon, and then you'll be able to go to his room."

Mr. Anderson blanched as they were lead over to the waiting room. He wasn't sure if his son being conscious this whole time was a blessing, or a goddamn curse.

The time ticked on. How long were they sitting there? Neither knew. They didn't care to keep track of the clock. They didn't want to know how long it was taking to fix their baby boy; they didn't want to know how badly he'd been broken. One thing they knew for sure was that it felt like an eternity.

"Mr. Anderson."

He sat up abruptly, blinking his eyes and looking up at the doctor. His wife was leaning heavily against him, the chest of his shirt soaked with her tears. Even in sleep, they continued to leak out against her will. He nudged her awake and looked back to the doctor, clasping hands tightly with her once she began to come to.

"Yes?"

"He's in a room now," the doctor explained. "He was in a lot of pain, so we've given him some medicine. He should be sleeping now. You can go in and see him if you like, but it's going to be a while before he wakes up, and even then, we're not sure how lucid he'll be."

"Thank you." The two got up and hurried out of the room behind the doctor, simultaneously eager and reluctant to see their son. Once they arrived at the door, the doctor took a step back, allowing them to go in on their own.

They linked fingers, holding tightly, and slowly walked into the room. In the bed was their son.

He was unrecognizable. Face swollen, eyes bruised, skin cut open, only to be stitched shut again. His fingers were scraped and red and still glistening with blood, though he had long since stopped bleeding. He was breathing heavily through his mouth; undoubtedly, his nose had been crushed in the brawl. They must have set it, though, because though it was swollen and bruised, it looked almost normal.

On the chair in the far corner, a set of clothes were neatly folded. Much to their horror, the crisp white shirt on top was stained with blood, the color dark and menacing - further validation of the wrongs that had been brought upon their family. Mrs. Anderson let go of her husband and rushed forward, collecting the clothes, staring at them like she honestly couldn't believe what she was seeing. Then, suddenly, she threw them into the nearest trash bucket with a satisfying thud.

"Why do they do that?" she demanded as she turned back, near hysterics once more. "Why they hell do they keep those clothes? It's like they want us to wash our dirty laundry in public!" She ran an angry hand through her hair, biting down on her finger as more tears leaked out.

Suddenly, the boy in the bed stirred, then coughed, catching the attention of his parents. Immediately, Mrs. Anderson was at his side, sliding her hand into his and letting him hold tightly. "Blaine, Blaine baby, shh," she whispered, brushing the hair back from his forehead, taking care not to touch any of his bruises. That was virtually impossible, seeing as they covered nearly every inch of his skin. But he made no distressed sounds - just coughed again and blinked one of his eyes open.

"Mom?" he croaked.

She almost sobbed again but pressed her lips tightly together, squeezing his hand. He squeezed back as she nodded. He gave a wan smile, exposing some of his teeth.

"The doctors said they didn't get my teeth," he slurred. "Were they lying?"

"No, baby," she whispered, twirling a curl around one of her fingers. "No, they weren't lying."

"Good," he noted, sinking back into his pillows and sighing softly. "'Cause they said I might need a new nose."

She choked out a cry at that, but Blaine either didn't notice or chose to ignore her. His head lolled to the other side so he could stare at his dad. "That you?" he asked.

"Yeah," his father said gruffly, stepping forward and resting his hand on Blaine's covered ankle gently. "Yeah, it's me."

The room got quiet for a few moments before Blaine's gruesome smile faded and his eyebrows created a crease in the middle of his forehead. "Dad, I… I know you're not a fan of this, but I just… I just had a question."

"What's that?" Mr. Anderson inquired, his exterior still mostly cool and indifferent.

Blaine swallowed nervously and licked his bottom lip. "I think… I think it'd be really cool if…" He trailed off, his good eye shutting as he sucked in a deep breath to calm himself, the heart monitor jumping just a little – enough to tell them that he was nervous."

"…What?" his mother prompted softly.

"If…" He cleared his throat - a terrible wet sound - and continued, "If you'd consider… letting me go to Dalton instead of Fairbrook."

His father dropped his head, listening to the steady beat of the heart monitor as the only source of noise in the room. At last, he stepped forward and said, "Blaine… I -"

The tone made Blaine try to sit up straighter, the heart monitor picking up. "Dad, c-c'mon, it's… I know you don't… I know you don't like me —"

"Blaine!" his mother choked out, near-tears again.

He ignored her and pressed on. "—but please, please, please, I'm begging you — don't make me have to go back there. Dad, I can't go back there, I can't." He began to cough again, though they melted off into sobs. "Dad, I can't, daddy, please, don't make me go back there… I don't want to go back, I can't go back!"

"What's going on?" A nurse poked her head in and immediately hurried inside. "Blaine, what are you doing awake? You're supposed to be asleep!" She pulled a syringe from within her scrubs and uncapped it, though Blaine lashed out an arm to stop her. His depth perception was off and he missed by a mile, instead catching his father's wrist.

"No!" Blaine shouted. "NO! Don't put me to sleep! Don't do it! Not until he promises!"

"Bruce," his mother said severely. "Bruce, for the love of god, he is our son." She turned to her boy and clutched his hand. "Baby, we won't make you do anything you don't want to –"

Blaine tried to shake her off, groping for his father. "No! No! I don't want to hear it from you!"

"Bruce!"

"PROMISE!"

"Okay," Mr. Anderson relented, grabbing Blaine's hand and holding tightly. The smaller boy's breath caught, eye widening as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"Promise," Blaine whispered, voice breaking. "You… You have to promise me that I can go to Dalton."

"You can go to Dalton," his father vowed quietly as the nurse stuck the needle into Blaine's IV. "I promise."

At that, Blaine relaxed back against his pillows, sniffling and clinging to his mother's arm. "Promise… You promised…"

His father hung back, eyes stinging as the nurse bustled past him, giving him a clearly judgmental glare.

I promised, his father thought. And it's not one I'm going to break.