***

"It should have gotten stitches." said Santana quietly, thoughtfully, as she pressed the ice pack Kurt had brought to the reddened, scraped, bruised side of Dave's face.

He winced, "It doesn't hurt. I'm fine. It was Friday, Santana. It's fine."

She stared at him. Did he think she was an idiot? The thought made her feel sick, the thought of Finn doing this. And Finn inside without even a scrape.

Her hands shook as she lifted the ice pack, "I can't believe this happened to you. I can't believe he -"

"I never said anything about Finn doing this." He snapped, moving backwards away from Santana. She clutched the icepack tightly in her hands, watching him. "I never said. You just assumed. You don't know."

Her chest constricted. She moved back and bumped into Kurt's car. They were standing aimlessly on the driveway, waiting for Kurt and Blaine.

Her eyes were wide, her mouth open. "I - I'm sorry. I just want to help you." She was echoing him. A broken record that could serve a purpose if she spelled the words right.

He sighed, looking defeated in the eyes, and snatched the ice pack from her hands. She curled her fingers into each other.

He glared, "I don't need your help. I'm fine."

***

Blaine

Blaine's spine curved into a crescent moon, head tipping forward onto his knees. He felt like he was going to be sick. He should have slept last night.

He should have slept the night before, too. But the same old ghosts were slinking back into his head like they owned the place.

Although he supposed in a way, they did.

He shuddered. They were splitting his bones and planting seeds from the past and he was just letting them grow. Because there wasn't anything else he could do. It was what he was asking for, what he deserved, and what he would get.

Somewhere in between kissing Kurt, really kissing him, for the first time and feeling his tears seep through his shirt on his shoulder before he fell asleep, Blaine swore he'd stop this. He couldn't keep doing this. He'd done the thing he swore he'd never do; he'd hurt Kurt. His idiocy had made Kurt cry and he would never forgive himself for that. He'd have that guilt with him until his dying day.

And the same old demons were trying to punch holes in his skin to bleed out the good he'd almost swallowed while being so in love with Kurt. And he was coming unhinged.

And it hurt.

He shuddered, groaning, face hidden in his legs, curled in on himself. He felt like he was going to be sick.

He flinched back when he felt a warm hand on his back. His first thoughts were bad.

"Blaine." It was Kurt. His stomach hurt. Every breath brought a sick feeling to his chest. "Blaine."

He shook his head into his knees, eyes squeezed shut. Not now. He had to focus for a second or he'd pass out.

"Finn is denying it. And without Karofsky saying -"

Kurt's voice lulled to a pounding drone. His head throbbed. He could hear a high ringing in his ears.

Beads of blood.

Oh, God. Think of other things. Blaine's head was scrambling.

He didn't want to die. Not now. Not today. He just wanted to feel something.

No. No, no, no. Not today. He wouldn't go there. He couldn't go there.

Kurt rubbed his back. "Blaine, honey, sit up, okay? It's okay." He felt Kurt's head lean on his shoulder, a warm weight pressing through the darkness.

He had to stop. Stay with Kurt. Not go back to lost places.

He leaned back, the air cold on his clammy face. Kurt curved his hand over the back of his neck. "You're okay. It's okay."

Of course it didn't feel good. Of course he didn't like it. But that was precisely what made it so right. Punishment. Well-deserved. A reminder.

Blaine's stomach lurched. He jumped up from the chair where he was sitting and tore through the hall, lurching into the bathroom. His skin burned from the inside.

***

Santana

"I'm trying to help."

"You're not helping." Santana flinched back when Dave snapped in her face, "You're not helping by freaking the hell out every two seconds, you're not helping by starting a fight!"

Santana's face burned. "I didn't start a fight."

Dave pushed himself away from her, "Yes, you did. You and Kurt, you both did. There was no reason to attack Finn like that - it was just stupid."

Her hand twitched. She narrowed her eyes. How could he say that? She was mad! Because Finn was the one that did this to him! She was trying to make a point! If nobody stood up to him, he would just get away with it!

"Don't give me that look - don't." He continued, pointing at her with a finger, "You know it was stupid. I know just as well as you do that what he did to Blaine was -"

"It's not only what he did to Blaine." She interrupted, biting down on her lip. Her head hurt. This was all a big waste of time.

Dave glared at her, "I can fight my own battles. I'm not eleven, Santana. I'm not going to let you get hurt or get in trouble because I screwed up -"

Her insides burned, "Just tell me what happened." Because she needed to know. She needed to know if it was Finn, even if she didn't want to. Old Santana would tear him limb from limb, this one still wasn't sure.

Dave pressed his lips together, "You know how many fights I've been in? This isn't special."

Then why did it feel so special?

Those things they say
blew my ears away.
I've stopped,
I've stopped listening.

And her words flew past like a verse in front a playwright. She was the main character, wide-eyed and burning. Blaine was the one laying down in the middle of the highway, just waiting to be crushed and just begging his subconscious to remember the other cars. And Kurt pulling on his arm with an agonized sort of vigorousness, desperate to cling to the tiny Warbler he knew first. And there was Karofsky, the victim-pegged-offender, hidden deep in a sweater made of blinding self-hatred with the collar pulled far over his head. And for the first time, she had something to say about it. Because watching so many people hate themselves was so, so exhausting and so, so sad. And she found she'd rather hate herself than let the only people she didn't hate be hated. Even by themselves.

So, she pushed away his angry hands and wound her arms gently - almost cautiously - around his neck. And stayed like that until his shock wore off and he started breathing again.

As the stars fall on our hands,
call the wind the thief for stealing their prayers.

"It's different," she began, shutting her eyes around angry images, "Because you didn't fight back."

She caught his brown-eyed glance her way. "I didn't want to hurt people anymore."