Rachel Berry walked into the choir room in an outfit no one thought she'd be caught dead in. She was in a white spaghetti strap tank top with her signature gold stars on the front, her arms bare with the hair raised on end. She was cold and they all could tell. She had a blue tint about her and her teeth were chattering. She sat in the dead center, like always; across from Mr. Schue was writing on the white board by the piano 'Modern Hits'.

"Alright guys, this week will be all about top one hundred songs. It doesn't have to be currently on the hit list, just keep it to after 2005, alright?" Schue stopped when he saw the girl in front of him. "Rachel?" Every head in the room turned towards her, even Brittany's after a few seconds of scanning the room for her. Mercedes', on Rachel's left, breath hitched and her eyes widened. "Would you like to go get a jacket?"

"No thanks, Mr. Schue. I'm perfectly fine." This was total bullshit because everyone could tell she was not perfectly fine.

"You sure Rache?" She nodded confidently. "Okay." He shrugged it off but kept a close eye on her, just for safety's purposes.

Mercedes unthinkingly lifted her hand to Rachel's arm and ran her hand over the angry red, raised patches of skin. "What-what happened to you, Rachel?"

Rachel looked down at her arm, almost as if she'd forgotten the scars were there. As if. "Oh, that? My cat scratched me."

"Must've been pissed." Mercedes nodded knowingly. Her cats often made people think they were cuts and she was depressed.

"Yeah." Rachel agreed numbly. The fact that Mercedes bought that piece of crap lie made her want to cry. She believed the cuts came from a cat. Even when just last week Rachel told her and Kurt she was allergic.

-x-

Mercedes flopped down on her bed and opened up Skype. She had a bad feeling about Rachel that she needed to discuss with Kurt. "Hey, white boy!" She smiled broadly at her friend. She noticed Blaine in the back ground, his hair not in its usual neat curls and straightening his Dalton jacket guiltily. "Hey Blaine!" She called back to him. He gave a wave in response, his cheeks an unmistakable shade of pink, a few hues lighter than Kurt's

"Hey, 'Cedes. How's life over at McKinley?"

"It's pretty good. We're doing top one hundred this week."

"Ooh, sounds fun! What song were you thinking of?"

"I was thinking something Rihanna."

"You should do 'Disturbia'; you'd so rock that, 'Cedes."

"Yeah, I guess."

"What's wrong?" Kurt's eyes widened a millimeter wide and Blaine popped into the shot, leaning next to Kurt with a similar look.

"Did Rachel say anything about cats last weekend?"

"Only that she was allergic, why?"

"She had a-a few cuts on her arm, said they were from her cat."

"Impossible, she's allergic and as her dads' pride and joy, they'd never get a cat." Kurt shook his head and pressed a thumb to his lip, deep in thought. Blaine wouldn't look into the camera. He obviously knew where this was going.

"Do you think she's, you know, cutting?" Mercedes asked hesitantly, dropping her tone. "I think she might be. Underneath the diva façade, she's kinda a poor soul. I don't think anyone in Glee has cut since…, but you stopped, so."

Kurt's eyes widened to the size of saucers and he looked around nervously-guiltily. "Well, don't pressure her or anything. She'll let you know eventually. Oh? What was that, Blaine? Dinner? Okay, 'Cedes, gotta go, bye!" He spoke fast so Mercedes couldn't get a word in and closed his laptop.

"Bye?" Mercedes snapped at the blank screen.

"Kurt, its four o'clock. Dinner isn't until six." Blaine reminded suspiciously.

"Did I say dinner; I meant class, my bad!" He was still speaking in the rapid-fire way of his.

"Classes end at three." Blaine crossed his arms. He knew what was wrong. And he wasn't letting it go.

"Maybe you should get a jump on your homework, then. I know how you hate to have to hand it in late." Kurt grabbed Blaine's hand and pulled him towards the door. He wasn't making much process seeing as Blaine was a hell of a lot stronger than he was, and he was strong.

"Kurt." Blaine started gently, trying to break off Kurt's incessant rambling. "Kurt." He tried again, futilely. Kurt was muttering something about goat cheese now. Blaine wasn't sure he wanted to know how he built a bridge from homework to goat cheese. "Kurt!" He shouted, practically demanding attention.

Kurt stopped trying to drag his boyfriend out the door and looked at him blankly, like he was unaware of his incoherent sentences. "What?"

"Let me see your wrist." Blaine ordered softly, grabbing Kurt's forearm and rolling up the sleeve of his Dalton jacket. No scars on the right arm. "Next." He murmured, pushing the sleeve of his jacket up on the opposite arm. Still nothing. "Jacket off." Kurt complied. Blaine inspected his shoulders and upper arms for scars. "Pants."

"What the hell-no."

"Humor me." Blaine asked dryly.

Kurt shrugged out of his khaki's and stood there in all awkwardness as Blaine circled him, looking for cuts. "Told you there was nothing." He pulled his pants up.

Blaine didn't get it. Mercedes said Kurt used to cut. But he just couldn't figure out where. He would swim with them, with his shirt on. He was insecure. About what, though? "Shirt off." He commanded. Kurt gulped, the total giveaway. Blaine helped him out of his shirt and gasped, running a hand over his boyfriend's muscular chest. "Oh, Kurt."