DISCLAIMER: I do not own Glee, Fox does. And Ryan Murphy. Title from Fight Club, obviously /raging Palahniuk boner

Warnings are: swearing, handjobs, smaaaaaaaall amount of bloodplay, fighting (uh, duh).

Reviewers, I heart you. Stay gold.

TUMBLR IS THAT WAY
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Dalton Academy's not-so secret fight club: where the jaded go to release their anger on the world's injustices and the optimistic get a hearty slap-to-the-face dose of reality.

Down here, you have to shed blood.

Down here, you are no longer a person but a body. A meat puppet.

No one is a space monkey or a member of Project Mayhem. You're still a kid, just a student looking for a way to take the edge off your day.

No one is your friend.

No one is better or worse.

Everyone just is.

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The funny thing is, Kurt doesn't even fight. He can swing a punch, sure, this Blaine knows firsthand from testing him out on the bag right after Blaine had discreetly broken the first two rules of fight club, but being able to swing and wanting to are completely different. Blaine remembers a time when he hadn't wanted to hurt anyone either.

But Blaine also remembers a time before hospitals and physical therapy, before Dalton, before coming out and endless prescription bottles for his anger issues. He remembers punching the drywall of his room in after yet another argument with his father about being gay. He remembers being jumped and being treated like a human punching bag. He remembers screaming at every doctor, every physical therapist, when he just couldn't get his fucking hand to close just right or when walking in a straight line seemed nearly impossible.

He's always angry, and why shouldn't he be? If the world's going to shit on him, then he's going to shit right back on the world.

And from there came fight club; there came the invention of a way to lose control while still maintaining control. There Blaine could shed the blazer, shed the clean-cut, well-mannered persona and just be him. Bare-chested, knuckle-wrapped, blood-and-sweat-soaked Blaine Anderson, knocking his classmates down one by one with the precision and agility of a viper.

Kurt usually watches, leaned against the cold wall, face neutral but eyes telling a different tale. He usually follows Blaine's every movement and is always ready with a water bottle when Blaine steps out to take a breather and let the next two guys go. Before they get together Kurt would give him a little tight-lipped smile and a nod; now Kurt's smile is a little wider and, if Blaine's face isn't too beat up, he gets a peck of the cheek or the lips, a whispered good job if he's been particularly successful that night.

But, who is Blaine kidding? He's successful every night.

He owns fight club. Fight club is his.

He is god.

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Philosophically speaking, Blaine shouldn't even be here.

Medically speaking, he should already be down and out.

But he has to be here. This is his catharsis, his mysterious wake-up at LaGuardia. O'Hare. This is him blinking bleary-eyed in a stuffy pressurized cabin sailing 30,000 feet above the Rockies.

This is his. Down here he's like god to wide-eyed little servants, this ragtag bunch of mindless monkeys and worker drones, their attention never faltering as he struts around bare-chested and brimming with bravado that he doesn't really feel. He's seventeen and already he has scars, joint problems, not just from this but from the whole reason he'd started this in the first place.

He's jaded, but that, he feels, is perfectly okay.

A hard-knuckled fist, big with the mountain ranges of bones, the kind you see on those mobsters in old films, connects with his cheek. Tan lines around the dude's fingers where rings have been removed (expansion of fight club rule #5), the dark hair of a wolf-man covering those mountains like snowcaps, this all flies towards his head at about a thousand miles an hour, a launching rocket.

Blaine can feel his teeth bite through the wet flesh of the inside of his mouth when the rocket makes impact. His neck snaps sideways, reddish spit flying from his mouth as he sways on the spot, bringing a wrapped hand up to gingerly rub at his cheek when he regains his bearings and shakes the static from his ears.

This is what he gets for thinking that the students of Dalton can actually keep a fucking secret for once. The man circling opposite him on the makeshift ring in Dalton's old bomb shelter is anything but young; at roughly 5'11 and with enough fur on his chest to be mistaken for the Missing Link, this guy has a rough-hewn face that even a mother would put a paper bag over.

The noises echo down here, reverberating and never-ending, and the smell of sweat and blood and vomit hangs stagnant and suffocating. The cardboard mat underfoot is soaked in some places with dark red, browning and crusting at the edges. Blaine does his best to avoid those spots as he narrows his eyes and stares at Missing Link, sizing him up. His mouth fills again with the taste of a roll of pennies.

That taste can mean blood or vomit: Blaine doesn't know which right now. Missing Link swings again and Blaine blocks it, but he's not quick enough for the next shot and before he can blink that destroyer of a bear fist pummels into his stomach and all air leaves him with a choked, gasping whoosh. He's almost to his knees now with hands clutching the blooming bruise on his abdomen, sees his vision go soft and black at the edges and hears everything ring out and fade before returning full-force. This isn't his worst, not by a long shot, but get enough power behind a punch and killing is just as likely as bruising.

He feels sweat drip down his back, down his chest, feels his hair, loose and curly by now, matted against his forehead. His cheek is still throbbing and the cut above his right eyebrow trickles a line of drying blood down the side of his face. If there's one thing that Blaine has, though, it's stamina and determination: to him, this beast is just another bully, just another kid from his past life that he could never stand up to before.

He regains his footing, swings out a hard right hook with a deep grunt and a lip-curling yell that mixes in with the rest of the testosterone-fueled foreign-tongued shouts. Blaine feels his knuckles dig into the soft flesh of the guy's temple and down he goes, crumpling to the ground faster than Blaine could blink or shake out his hand.

Blaine steps out of the ring, shakes the sweat off his hair and the blood out of his eyes and cracks his knuckles. A few students pat him on the back, congratulating him before focusing on the ring where Nick and some kid from Blaine's algebra class, Jake or Jason or Jakobi, step up with a friendly handshake before their eyes turn steely and they fall into position, letting their primal instincts take over, washing out the conscious knowledge that they're kids, friends, and choosing instead to speak the common language of Dalton Academy's fight club: fists. Every hit is like a sacrifice. Every drop of blood rolling down a cheek or from a mouth is a blood offering, a peacemaker.

Blaine tongues the inside of his cheek, comes back with the metallic tang of blood on his taste buds, and spits the mouthful of saliva-blood mixture on the floor before reaching for one of the lukewarm water bottles stacked on a flimsy card table in the corner of the room. Stacked on another identical table next to it are red-and-blue blazers, red-and-blue striped ties. freshly-shined black dress shoes are haphazardly thrown together, just another reminder if how easy it is to change, morph, once the clothes and items that define you are discarded like a used cigarette butt.

The sore is on top of another sore, like a looped video. His muscles burn with lactic acid; his hands sting from the five o'clock shadow on the dude's face and his elbows burn from when he was knocked to the rough cardboard mat toward the beginning of his fight, right after the usual spiel about the rules and the appearance of Missing Link.

Blaine Anderson is no amateur at fight club. But someone in the ring is, and that someone has bright blonde hair and a still-optimistic face; Blaine thinks he must be new to the school because he's never seen him before. Or maybe some asshole just couldn't keep their mouth shut again. Whichever, why the kid's here Blaine won't ask, but he does know that after just an hour, maybe two, after seeing guy after guy knocked down, blood coating their teeth and cuts littering their lips and foreheads, bruises huge and purple and nasty all over their bodies, he'll lose a little of that optimism and see what the world is really about.

See that no one matters in the end.

We live. We die. We fight.

We fertilize the earth and that's all we're good for.

The smirk that curls up one side of Blaine's mouth is diabolical. After all, the final rule of fight club is: if it's your first night, you have to fight.

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Kurt likes blood.

Blaine likes Kurt.

Kurt likes Blaine.

And Kurt likes Blaine even better when his split-knuckled hands are wrapped around his cock, pumping hard and unrelenting. Their systems are still running high with leftover adrenaline from tonight's fight club, and when Kurt kisses Blaine blood sits tangy and metallic on his tongue from that looped-video sore and the tiny split from tonight marring Blaine's lower lip.

Kurt moans and presses his fingers hard into a yellowing bruise on the slope of Blaine's shoulder. Blaine moans and squeezes a little tighter on Kurt's cock, blood still dripping fresh from the scrapes on his knuckles. Tonight had been Blaine in the ring for a full forty-five minutes, and when he'd finally hit the mat at the end courtesy of Jay, a 5'10 junior with more muscles than a Chippendales show, he'd been gifted with a fresh black eye, split-knuckles after losing the tape halfway through the third fight, and multiple bruises and cuts that still oozed blood.

Kurt had shoved him into the nearest bathroom and kissed him as hard as he could, gripping at the sweaty strands of Blaine's hair and smelling boy at its most natural.

"You turn me on so much," he whispers, tongue tracing a line of blood from a cut high on Blaine's cheekbone. "Seeing you out there, fighting like that. You look so determined, so pure."

Back against the sink, hand on the faucet to steady himself, Kurt is pressed with Blaine practically on top of him, jerking him off quickly and rutting his own still-clothed cock against Kurt's thigh. Small traces of blood still tinge Blaine's gums and the corner of his mouth. His eye is starting to swell shut, there's a deep cut high on his forehead, and somehow he's still beautiful. He's still Blaine Anderson, prized student by day and champion fighter by Thursday night.

Blaine's lips are warm and soft against Kurt's, plaint and open and so very, very willing. He thumbs the head of Kurt's dick, rubs right against the spot on the underside to see Kurt's back arch and his head tilt back, exposing him in ways he's never been exposed, all with such small, simple movements. This is Kurt at his sexiest, when he lets himself feel and stops living behind his mask of indifference and devil-may-care philosophy. This is Kurt letting Blaine touch him. This is Kurt with trace amounts of Blaine's blood on his tongue, staining his lips from where they've been kissing.

This is Kurt coming and falling apart when Blaine breathes hotly into his ear. This is Kurt's come spilling over Blaine's bloodied knuckles and bruised torso, over the soft fabric of the tank top Kurt's still wearing.

This is Kurt whispering a sated I love you as Blaine cleans off his hand.

This is Blaine whispering it back.

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The next week, Kurt enters the ring, shirt off, shoes and socks off. The room is shocked silent when Kurt takes his place on the cardboard mat, more blood staining it now, and holds his chin up defiantly, eyes flashing a challenge to anyone who dares oppose him.

Blaine steps up but doesn't smile. Kurt cracks his knuckles, falls into a stance.

Everyone seems to be holding their breath.

The locker room smell of sweat and the penny smell of blood.

Then it's Blaine and Kurt circling like hungry predatory lions, nothing on their minds except the thrill of the fight and the adrenaline rush from stepping barefoot onto the dirty, bloody mat, the blood from others previous still warm and squishy between their toes.

Just their eyes locking, intense.

No previous cadence to their steps, no hint of any sort of previous relationship existing between their minds and their fists. On this mat, they're nothing short of enemies. On this mat, they're two strangers burning off energy.

On this mat they're no longer Kurt and Blaine but vessels for a rage greater than anyone has ever known, a greater cause that, in hindsight, when this all dies down, is not so great, but completely childish and foolish.

Blaine delivers the first punch.

Kurt ducks, swings out of reflex and grunts when he feels his fist make contact with a maze work of bones, hears Blaine's surprised, pained grunt as he stumbles backward, unsteady on two legs like a newborn. A whoop rings out, then someone claps, and Blaine can't help but smile now because Kurt is gorgeous like this, unrestrained like a wild horse and just as graceful and frightening as the real thing. When Blaine swings again, a quick uppercut that Kurt doesn't catch, Kurt falls to the floor with a thud, hissing in pain as he stops his fall with an elbow.

Blaine silently challenges him to get back up.

Kurt does and doesn't hesitate to charge and swing.

It's a surprise to everyone when Blaine goes down first, blood trickling out of his mouth in a thin line, knuckle prints red on the olive skin of his chest and lip swollen where his teeth had bitten through the inner flesh. Kurt doesn't look fazed, or even winded for that matter. Blaine's blood shines on his knuckles like a prize.

They're both breathing heavy.

Blaine looks up at him, hazel eyes wide, that black eye still healing and still shadowing a dark purple. Kurt looks a little shocked, at himself or maybe at the cheers and garbled congratulations from the other boys, and suddenly Blaine wants to fuck him raw and hard until he screams. Blaine pushes himself up, ignores the screams of pain from his battered body, and holds his hand out to Kurt. Smiles, teeth smeared red with blood, lips the same color like an obscure Snow White.

When he spits, it's like a dark glob of chewing tobacco.

"Let's do this again sometime."

Kurt takes his hand, smiles back and says, "Let's do it again tonight."

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When they fuck, it's with blood smearing on mouths and hands and torsos. It's Blaine under Kurt on his hands and knees, Kurt's cock in Blaine's ass, Kurt's weight against his back; it's Kurt tugging Blaine's hair, yanking his head back and slapping their skin together wetly with each hard thrust forward; it's Kurt's words, dark and filthy, in Blaine's ear.

When they come it's with screams and sighs and moans.

From then on Kurt fights every week.